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The past is never dead. It's not even past

Not Even Past

Recuerdos de guerra: experiencias japonesas en la frontera durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial

Para llegar a un público más amplio, volvemos a publicar en español el artículo de Lucero Estrella, Memories of War: Japanese Borderlands Experiences during WWII. Le agradecemos a Lucero por la traducción.

Cuando visité el hogar de Rosy Galván Yamanaka en Piedras Negras, Coahuila, me tenía preparado un plato de udon al estilo mexicano. Me senté en su comedor y escuché mientras me contaba historias de su abuelo, José Ángel Yamanaka, un migrante japonés que llegó a México a principios del siglo XX. Como muchos otros inmigrantes japoneses, Yamanaka llegó para trabajar en las minas de carbón en Coahuila. Eventualmente se quedó a vivir en Piedras Negras. Esta ciudad fronteriza no es solo un lugar con una comunidad de mexicanos con ascendencia japonesa, sino que también es una ciudad fronteriza donde actualmente están llegando grupos de migrantes hondureños, venezolanos y entre otros. Aunque no parezca evidente, las historias ignoradas de las comunidades japonesas en México y Texas durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial y los relatos de los migrantes en la frontera en el presente resaltan experiencias de exclusión, criminalización y violencia que son similares.

Rosy (a la derecha) fotografiada con su madre (centro) y su hermano menor (izquierda) durante una visita a la casa de su abuelo en Monclova, Coahuila. Cortesía de Rosy Galván Yamanaka.
Rosy (a la derecha) fotografiada con su madre (centro) y su hermano menor (izquierda) durante una visita a la casa de su abuelo en Monclova, Coahuila. Cortesía de Rosy Galván Yamanaka.

Después de acordarse que tenía algunas fotografías de su familia de 1942 a 1945, Galván Yamanaka empezó a contarme cómo su abuelo se había mudado a Monclova, Coahuila, durante la guerra. Su abuelo se había mudado al sur de la frontera, después de que el presidente mexicano Manuel Ávila Camacho ordeno que todos los japoneses que vivían cerca de la frontera se tenían que trasladar a la Ciudad de México y Guadalajara. La familia Yamanaka estuvo separada durante tres años, pero tuvieron la suerte de permanecer en el mismo estado. Otras familias mexicanas de origen japonesas no pudieron visitar a sus familiares debido a los costos y las largas distancias. Galván Yamanaka sabe que su abuelo se vio obligado a dejar Piedras Negras y trasladarse a Monclova durante la guerra porque ella nació en 1941, al inicio de la guerra. Ella tiene estas historias de los años de la guerra debido al tiempo que pasó con su abuelo y sus familiares mayores y cree que es su deber compartirlas con las generaciones más jóvenes de su familia.

Los recuerdos de los mexicanos de origen japones de la Segunda Guerra Mundial permanecen ocultos. Algunas familias no saben qué les pasó a sus familiares japoneses durante la guerra. Muchos tardaron años antes de descubrir por qué el Estado mexicano separó forzosamente a sus parientes japoneses sin que importara su ciudadanía. Estos recuerdos de la guerra quedan dentro de cada familia mexicana japonesa. Algunas familias mexicanas con ascendencia japonesa desconocen la discriminación que enfrentaron sus familiares y que muchos fueron obligados a abandonar sus hogares. De hecho, la mayoría de los mexicanos desconocen este momento de la historia mexicana.  

En enero de 1942, el presidente Ávila Camacho ordenó a todos los inmigrantes japoneses y las comunidades japonesas que residían en a la costa del Pacífico y cerca la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México se trasladaran al centro de México. El gobierno mexicano les dio un aviso de 24 horas para evacuar durante la primer orden y les pidió trasladarse a Guadalajara y Ciudad de México. El gobierno también dejó de aceptar solicitudes de naturalización de inmigrantes japoneses e impidió que los japoneses recaudaran fondos de sus cuentas bancarias o realizaran cambios de dinero.[1] La respuesta del gobierno al ataque a Pearl Harbor de diciembre de 1941 se centró en las comunidades japonesas cercanas a la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México y en la costa del Pacífico, ya que estas comunidades fueron marcadas como una “amenaza” tanto para Estados Unidos como para México.[2] Los japoneses fueron responsables de organizar sus propios viajes al centro de México e informar su reubicación y domicilio al gobierno. A diferencia de algunos países de Latinoamérica, el gobierno mexicano no trabajó con el gobierno de estadounidense para deportar a sus comunidades japonesas a campos en Estados Unidos.[3]

Las historias del encarcelamiento de japoneses en Estados Unidos y la expulsión forzada de japoneses en México suelen no ser contadas juntas, ocultando la manera en cual el gobierno mexicano y el gobierno estadounidense fueron cómplices en la racialización y criminalización de las comunidades japonesas durante la guerra.[4] Al contar historias transfronterizas de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, aprendemos que las agencias de inteligencia mexicanas, junto con el FBI, la Patrulla Fronteriza, el Servicio de Inmigración y Naturalización (INS) y las autoridades locales en la frontera entre México y Texas, fueron parte de la reubicación, expulsión y vigilancia de ciudadanos japoneses y familias japonesas de la región fronteriza. Estas narrativas no sólo incluyen a el norte de México y Texas en las historias de exclusión y vigilancia japonesa durante el comienzo del siglo XX, sino que también ilustran cómo las colaboraciones entre agencias y funcionarios en Estados Unidos y México han afectado durante mucho tiempo a las comunidades de inmigrantes en la frontera.

Mapa de la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México
Mapa de la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México

Por ejemplo, el campamento de Crystal City en Texas, cual fue inaugurado en 1942, estaba ubicado a 50 millas al este de la frontera de Eagle Pass-Piedras Negras. Este campamento se utilizó para retener a japoneses americanos, japoneses latinoamericanos y otros reclusos de ascendencia italiana y alemana. Este campamento fue operado por agentes de la Patrulla Fronteriza y del INS. Aun así, esta historia de encarcelamiento japonés no suele ser recordada dentro de las historias de criminalización y exclusión en el sur de Texas y la región fronteriza. La presencia de este campo de encarcelamiento japonés en el sur de Texas, al igual que el desplazamiento de las comunidades japonesas en el norte de México, tampoco forma parte de la memoria de las comunidades regionales. A través de ambos casos se descubren narrativas ocultas de vigilancia de las comunidades japonesas en la frontera que comenzaron décadas antes de la Segunda Guerra Mundial.[5] Las historias de familias de japonesas en Estados Unidos, México y Latino América que fueron separadas también reflejan una historia más extensa de separación de familias en la frontera.

Póster “Behind Barbed Wire” (Detrás del alambre de púas) para el Día del Recuerdo del Museo Nacional Japonés Americano (JANM) en 2019.
Póster “Behind Barbed Wire” (Detrás del alambre de púas) para el Día del Recuerdo del Museo Nacional Japonés Americano (JANM) en 2019. Cortesía de JAMN .

Hoy en día, artistas y organizaciones comunitarias están destacando la convergencia de formas de encarcelamiento y vigilancia policial en el pasado y el presente a través de su trabajo. Este dibujo de la artista japonesa americana Elyse Imoto ilustra las similitudes en la criminalización y violencia en las experiencias de las comunidades japonesas durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial y de los migrantes mexicanos, centroamericanos, haitianos, venezolanos y otros en la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México en los últimos años.[6] La yuxtaposición de un niño pintado en blanco y negro y el otro pintado en color marca un pasado y un presente. La niña pintada en blanco y negro parece ser una japonesa americana retenida durante el período de encarcelamiento en la década de 1940. El niño en color a la derecha parece representar a un niño mexicano o centroamericano en el presente en la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México. En el fondo se ve una torre de vigilancia, edificios que normalmente se encontraban en los campos, y un letrero que dice “Puerto de entrada de los Estados Unidos” con figuras que parecen ser agentes armados de la Patrulla Fronteriza.

La detención de migrantes ha ido en aumento desde el 2016, y del 2021 a agosto del 2022 se habían reportado 372 casos de separación de familias.[7] Los casos de separación de familias en la frontera son el resultado de políticas que condenan penalmente a los migrantes y separan a padres o adultos que intentan cruzan con niños. Uno no pensaría inmediatamente que las condiciones y el trato de los inmigrantes hoy en día en la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México estén relacionados con el trato de las comunidades japonesas y su expulsión forzada durante la guerra. Sin embargo, los encarcelados en el campamento de Crystal City y los japoneses que vivián en los estados de Chihuahua, Coahuila, Nuevo León y Tamaulipas se vieron obligados a reubicarse y dejar atrás a sus familias y comunidades. La historia del desplazamiento de japoneses durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial suele ser considerada una historia distante de la frontera entre Texas y México que no está relacionada con historias más extensas de encarcelamiento y violencia en la región. Sin embargo, las experiencias de los migrantes en el sur de Texas son parte de una normalización de violencia continua que el estado considera aceptable a través de su lenguaje y políticas para la “seguridad nacional” o contra posibles “amenazas” o “criminales.” El encarcelamiento de japoneses cerca de la frontera entre Texas y México y las actuales políticas estatales de migración y ciudadanía en la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México son parte de un proceso de exclusión que se desarrolló como resultado de la inmigración racializada y políticas del siglo XX.

Cortesía de Tsuru for Solidarity ( https://tsuruforsolidarity.org ).
Cortesía de Tsuru for Solidarity ( https://tsuruforsolidarity.org ).

En Estados Unidos, grupos como Tsuru por la Solidaridad (o Tsuru for Solidarity) están tratando de cambiar esto al compartir sus experiencias y las historias de la separación de familias durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial y así  #PararDeRepetirLaHistoria (o #StopRepeatingHistory).[8] Tsuru for Solidarity es un proyecto formado por japoneses americanos y japoneses latinoamericanos que son defensores de la justicia social y sus aliados, y el grupo lidera campañas en todo Estados Unidos para educar al público sobre la historia del encarcelamiento japonés y construir solidaridades con otros grupos que son el blanco de políticas de inmigración racistas. Algunos de los participantes son miembros de familias japonesas que fueron encarceladas durante la guerra o descendientes de ex encarcelados. Ellos encabezan campañas fuera de los centros de detención de inmigrantes en todo Estados Unidos para protestar las condiciones en estos centros y en contra de políticas que permiten la separación de familias.

La historia del encarcelamiento, la expulsión forzosa y la separación de familias japonesas durante la guerra en ambos lados de la frontera entre Estados Unidos y México ilustra los legados de violencia que tienen vínculos extensos con la exclusión antiasiática de los finales del siglo XIX. El legado de estas políticas se refleja en el presente con la criminalización y el encarcelamiento de migrantes y solicitantes de asilo en la frontera. Las familias japonesas con ascendencia japonesa y activistas comunitarios en Estados Unidos y México están compartiendo sus recuerdos dentro de sus familias y comunidades, asegurándose así de que estas historias no sean olvidadas.

Lucero Estrella es candidata a doctorado en Estudios Americanos en la Universidad de Yale y actualmente es investigadora visitante en el Instituto de Estudios Históricos (IHS) de la Universidad de Texas en Austin. Su tesis doctoral es un estudio de las historias de la migración japonesa y la formación de comunidades en Texas y el noreste de México a lo largo del siglo XX. Su tesis examina cómo las comunidades mineras y agrícolas japonesas en Coahuila, Nuevo León y Texas son fundamentales para las historias de raza, migración e imperio. Utilizando historias orales con comunidades japonesas en ambos lados de la frontera y fuentes de archivos estatales y locales en México, Japón y Estados Unidos, su trabajo ilustra cómo los japoneses en México y Estados Unidos, y las fuerzas nacionales y globales que moldearon sus vidas, son importantes para las historias de México, Japón y la región fronteriza entre Estados Unidos y México.


[1] María Elena Ota Mishima, Siete migraciones japonesas en México 1890-1978 (México: El Colegio de México, 1982), 97.

[2] La vigilancia de las comunidades japonesas en el norte de México no era algo nuevo, y la vigilancia de estadounidense hacia las comunidades japonesas en México fue alimentada por las ansiedades del estado estadounidense por la expansión del imperio japonés y el miedo al “peligro amarillo” entre las décadas de 1920 y 1940. Para obtener más información, consulte los trabajos de los historiadores Eiichiro Azuma, Jerry García y Sergio Hernández Galindo: Sergio Hernández Galindo, La guerra contra los japoneses en Mexico durante la segunda guerra mundial: Kiso Tsuru y Masao Imuro, migrantes vigilados, First edition. (Mexico City: Itaca 2011); Jerry Garcia. Looking like the Enemy: Japanese Mexicans, the Mexican State, and US Hegemony, 1897-1945. (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2014); Eiichiro Azuma. “Japanese Immigrant Settler Colonialism in the U.S.-Mexican Borderlands and the U.S. Racial-Imperialist Politics of the Hemispheric “Yellow Peril”.” Pacific Historical Review 83, no. 2 (2014).

[3] Países como Perú, Panamá, Ecuador, Bolivia, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador y Venezuela trabajaron con Estados Unidos para deportar y encarcelar a la fuerza a japoneses latinoamericanos en campos en Estados Unidos. Algunos japoneses que viven en México, como funcionarios de alto nivel, diplomáticos y un pequeño número de japoneses que vivían cerca de la frontera fueron encarcelados en Estados Unidos. Para obtener más información sobre el encarcelamiento de japoneses en México, consulte Selfa A. Chew, Uprooting Community: Japanese Mexicans, World War II, and the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands, (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 2015).

[4] Académicos estadunidenses han debatido el uso de “internamiento” y “encarcelamiento”, entre otras palabras como “detención” y “confinamiento.” Densho, una organización japonesa americana sin fines de lucro con sede en Seattle, “alienta el uso del “encarcelamiento,” excepto en el caso específico de los japones americanos detenidos por el ejército o el Departamento de Justicia.” La historiadora Connie Chiang señala que el encarcelamiento transmite la falta de libertad que enfrentaron las personas de ascendencia japonesa y por esta razón usa “encarcelamiento” en su libro. Consulte “Terminology – Densho: Japanese American Incarceration and Japanese Internment.” Densho: The Japanese American Legacy Project. https://densho.org/terminology/#incarceration; Connie Y. Chiang. Nature Behind Barbed Wire: An Environmental History of the Japanese American Incarceration. (Oxford University Press 2018).

[5]  Las preocupaciones del gobierno estadunidense sobre el hecho que los inmigrantes japoneses y otros asiáticos sobrepasaran las restricciones de inmigración y cruzaran la frontera para ingresar a los Estados Unidos se extendía por toda la frontera y llegaba al norte de México y estas preocupaciones fueron alimentadas por un “peligro amarillo” transfronterizo. Estas preocupaciones no se referían sólo a la inmigración japonesa no autorizada a Estados Unidos, sino también a la formación de grandes colonias japonesas en México y a la compra de grandes concesiones por parte de los japoneses en México. Eiichiro Azuma, “Japanese Immigrant Settler Colonialism in the U.S.-Mexican Borderlands and the U.S. Racial-Imperialist Politics of the Hemispheric ‘Yellow Peril,’” PaciRc Historical Review 83, no. 2 (2014): 255–76.

[6] Este dibujo de Imoto se utilizó como cartel para el Día del Recuerdo del Museo Nacional Japonés Americano (JANM) en 2019. Se utilizó como portada de su programa, y para promocionar el evento en persona organizado en JANM en Los Ángeles.

[7] “Biden is Still Separating Migrant Kids from Their Families.” Texas Observer. November 21, 2022. https://www.texasobserver.org/the-biden-administration-is-still-separating-kids-from-their-families/.

[8] Tsuru es una grulla en japones y el símbolo del grupo es una grulla de origami. Para obtener más información sobre Tsuru for Solidarity y sus campañas y esfuerzos, consulte: https://tsuruforsolidarity.org.

Filed Under: Features

Motherhood, Patriotism and Enfranchisement: How Mexican Catholic Women Defined Womanhood in the Mid-Twentieth Century 

Banner image for Motherhood, Patriotism and Enfranchisement: How Mexican Catholic Women Defined Womanhood in the Mid-Twentieth Century

My thesis focused on tracing and analyzing the complicated political conversations within the women’s division of the Mexican Catholic Action, specifically regarding women’s suffrage from the late 1930s to the early 1950s. My work revealed a layered set of beliefs that defy these women’s simple classification into feminist or antifeminist categories. Their complex reconciliation of conservative views with more progressive ones is a trend that has also been found in the historiography of international Christian women’s organizations through various time periods.[1] In a relatively recent article, Mexican historian Pedro Espinoza Meléndez also identifies seemingly opposing currents of thought present in ACM women’s publications.[2] In this way, my research builds on new scholarship to suggest the need for frameworks that avoid the feminist/antifeminist binary we may be inclined to apply. We should especially be careful if Western interpretations of these terms are being used to explain phenomena in non-Western regions.

Mexican women did not obtain the right to vote in federal elections until 1953, although there were important antecedents to this final victory dating back at least to the Revolution. One of the reasons for this was the fear that they would infuse national politics with more conservative ideas. Some primary sources provide evidence not necessarily for the validity of these fears, but definitely for their existence and influence in the 1930s. For example, in a speech given at the first National Women’s Congress in 1936, activist Esther Chapa said that many believed “woman is influenced by the most conservative and reactionary currents, and can therefore tip the general politics of the country to the right.”[3]

It is significant also that Chapa declared this fear, rather than other, more overtly misogynistic ideas (which she also discussed) to be the excuse “that is most energetically used by certain enemies of women’s votes.”[4]  Of course, she vehemently denies that these concerns should be taken seriously. Based on other sources, historians have also generally agreed that the precarious political establishment at the time feared that women’s participation would derail them from a progressive political path.[5] For example, one of the first historians of women’s fight for suffrage in Mexico, Ward M. Morton from the University of Florida, cited the enfranchisement of Spanish women in 1933—which resulted on a rightward swing in Spanish politics—as one of the key causes for hesitation on the part of left-leaning or centrist Mexican officials in the 1930s.[6]

photo of Elvia Carrillo Puerto
Elvia Carrillo Puerto, one of the first women representatives in the country in 1923, alongside Beatriz Peniche Ponce and Raquel Dzib Cicero. Source: Wikimedia Commons

There is value in this explanation, but the extent to which these fears were founded is difficult to assert. What is clear, however, is that these ideas were significant at the time, and have permeated into the historiography. In my opinion, one way of getting closer to a nuanced view of the issue is to refrain from treating women as a monolithic group in Mexican society, especially in such a crucial moment of development for the nation’s democracy and larger political apparatus. Because the women of the Mexican Catholic Action promoted ideas from both the right and the left, the study of their beliefs is particularly useful in this endeavor.

When looking at Catholic women’s opinions on the vote, it is crucial to define the elements that made the struggle singularly complex in Mexico. First, due to the wording of the Mexican Constitution, women’s political rights always included two related, but distinct goals—the right to vote and the right to get elected. Inextricably connected, these were fought for and obtained simultaneously in Mexico, unlike in many other countries. This may appear to be a trivial difference. Its significance becomes clear, however, when remembering the previously-explained fear of a women-led hit to progressive political parties and policies. With both ballot boxes and federal offices opening up to women, these fears would have reasonably been amplified.

I should also note that due to their reputed conservatism, it was traditional, Catholic women—such as those in the Mexican Catholic Action—who were the most blamed for the potential setbacks that would come from women’s enfranchisement. As I will demonstrate, while they did hold some conservative ideas, these were paired with more left-leaning attitudes, eventually including unequivocal support for suffrage. The study of their point of view is therefore especially interesting and significant. Gendered conceptions of citizenship responsibilities further compounded the challenges women faced in the fight for political rights.[7]

Logo for Mexican Catholic Action.
Logo for Mexican Catholic Action.

At least three additional contextual factors must be explained prior to any exploration of Catholic women’s political views from the 1930s to the 1950s. The first is the emergence and promotion of Catholic social doctrine in Rome starting in the late 1800s. Generally speaking, Catholic social doctrine was the church’s ideological response to significant events such as industrialization, the rise of communism, and large-scale warfare, conceived largely to maintain relevance in the face of these and other global trends. Some of its principles included the right to own private property, a condemnation of communism as well as unfettered capitalism (a debate that would become especially relevant post-WWII), and the basic dignity of human beings. As will be detailed later, Mexican women actively interpreted Catholic social doctrine, using it as basis for their political goals, including obtaining the right to vote.

The second important background event is the Mexican Revolution. On the one hand, revolutionary characters and ideals—including the expansion of democracy—proved to be of extreme value for many post-Revolution political factions. Indeed, the party that would command the executive branch of government from 1929 to the year 2000, was the National Revolutionary Party (later named the Institutional Revolutionary Party). By the late 1940s, Catholic women would adduce revolutionary principles to explain why granting them political rights was in line with the perceived promises of the revolution.

photo of a scene from The Mexican Revolution.
The Mexican Revolution. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Third, we must understand the nature of church-state relations in Mexico. The Cristero War (1926-1929) brought the tensions between the church and the post-Revolutionary Mexican state to the battlefield. As the war ended, various Catholic lay organizations that had previously engaged with national politics merged to form The Mexican Catholic Action (ACM) in 1929, during the papacy of Pius XI. Although most members of the ACM were from the middle and upper classes, they also had growing peasants’ divisions and chapters across the country. Some historians have argued that the incorporation of many Catholic lay organizations translated into a general decrease in their political involvement, as Catholic Action groups worldwide were directly under clerical authority.[8] Other historians, such as Kristina Boylan, have found that female members—who were the majority—actually retained and fostered the political streak of earlier Catholic lay groups in Mexico.[9]

Catholic social doctrine, especially papal encyclicals associated with its theory, was widely discussed and promoted in ACM circles. Pope Leo XIII’s famous Rerum Novarum encyclical in 1891 is widely regarded as one of the founding documents of Catholic social doctrine.[10] In it, the church proposed it as a way to inter-class harmony, emphasizing Christian charity.[11] In the ACM, this particular encyclical and a few others were especially celebrated. For example, in a report from the co-secretary of the ACM’s central committee from June 25th, 1939, one of the forms outlined discussed plans for the formation of study circles for social education, in preparation for the 50th anniversary of the Rerum Novarum.[12] Later, Popes Pius XI and Pius XII cited and expanded its philosophy. Aside from his additions to Catholic social doctrine, Pope Pius XI actively encouraged the foundation of Catholic Action groups around the world.

photo of Pius XI, by Nicola Perscheid, circa 1922
Pius XI, by Nicola Perscheid, circa 1922. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Building on Boylan’s research on ACM women’s activism, I proposed that although the women of the Mexican Catholic Action enthusiastically followed the pope and were heavily influenced by Catholic social doctrine, they also actively interpreted, modified, and spread messages from Rome according to their interests. For example, while Rerum Novarum suggested that a woman was “by nature fitted for home-work” in order to raise children, the ACM adopted a wider interpretation of this role.[13] A 1938 article titled “Prepare Yourself for our Assembly,” meant to be read prior to that year’s national assembly of the young woman’s division, argued that all women have social duties, “whether it falls upon them to become mothers or…whether their maternity is purely spiritual.”[14]

By this perception, women should act as mothers towards their own children, but also to anyone who needs a mother, and towards the Mexican nation. Introducing a spiritual maternity into the lexicon reflects how these women managed to marry conservative political views, such as their opposition to divorce and critiques of certain media, with more liberal ones, like their support for suffrage and women’s ability to take up professional roles. The adoption of these seemingly adversary attitudes demonstrates that rather than passively obeying papal precepts, Catholic women actively shaped their meaning. Eventually, and especially as church-state relations became less combative, ideas such as these would become part of the basis for their support of suffrage.

The Mexican Revolution and the fervent patriotism that followed it also underpinned the ACM’s gradual embrace of enfranchisement. In 1947, women in Mexico finally received voting rights, albeit limited to local elections. That same year, the ACM disseminated a bulletin titled My Vote as a Mexican Catholic Woman. It was written by Emma Galán, who had served as president of the ACM’s young women’s division and had thus been part of the ACM’s Central Committee. In the publication, Galán devoted a whole section to “the aggrandizement of Mexico” and declared that voting was “a moral duty in the face of love for the Motherland.”[15] Invoking the Mexican Revolution, the document also reveals that women viewed enfranchisement as the achievement of its goals, supporting the expansion of suffrage to include voting in federal elections as well. To Galán, it was anti-revolutionary and anti-patriotic to abstain from voting or to oppose suffrage.

A column by Hermila Galindo published in a 1917 issue of the magazine Mujer Moderna (Modern Woman).
A column by Hermila Galindo published in a 1917 issue of the magazine Mujer Moderna (Modern Woman). In it, she announced her candidacy for localrepresentative. She also outlined her agenda, which included “defending the interests of [all] mothers,” “matrimonial hygiene,” and “procuring everything which would contribute to her dignity.” It was followed by a short editorial note clarifying that women did not have the right to vote in Mexico. Source: Wikimedia Commons {PD-US-expired}

Galán also offers that not voting was also anti-Catholic. The ACM first adopted this position around 1939, though initially, they didn’t explicitly include women.[16] Eventually, though, political circumstances led to women’s incorporation. The ACM was vocally against the secularization of schools, for example, and since education issues were traditionally viewed as part of women’s realm, they became assets in this political fight. Bringing women into the fold through the vote would, therefore, advance their political goals, goals that would at the same time bring about a Mexico that was in line with Catholic social doctrine. Beyond secularization in schools and other such concerns, there was a persistent belief that unfettered capitalism, and most especially communism, were preventing the ACM’s idealized, Catholic Mexico—one that reflected Catholic social doctrine as they saw it—from flourishing. In this way, giving pious women the right to vote was not against Catholic social doctrine, but a benefit to its spread.

The new version of the Mexican one thousand peso bill includes the image of three revolutionary figures: Carmen Serdán (left), Hermila Galindo (center), and Francisco I. Madero (right).
The new version of the Mexican one thousand peso bill includes the image of three revolutionary figures: Carmen Serdán (left), Hermila Galindo (center), and Francisco I. Madero (right). Serdán was known for her support of Madero, and her participation in the revolution as a writer and member of a revolutionary junta. Galindo was an early supporter of both divorce and suffrage, and served as Venustiano Carranza’s secretary for some time. According to historian Gabriela Cano, she even ran for office before she had that right explicitly in 1917, at least in part to protest this constitutional restriction. The bill has been in circulation since the end of 2020, as per the Mexican Central Bank. The photo was taken by one of the author’s family members.

Overall, I hope my investigation of Catholic women’s discourse surrounding suffrage contributes to the perspective that different groups of women throughout history have defined their role and purpose differently, drawing from multiple theories and doctrines. It is hard, therefore, to apply or even find a general rule that defines all women in a given time period. Instead of attempting to do so, I have carefully analyzed the views of a limited sample—those of the women in the Mexican Catholic Action, who themselves embody a complex intermingling of ideas. These women incorporated both national and international considerations—such as papal precepts, and the revolution’s legacy—into their political consciousness, and in doing so they were denoting the meaning of femininity. Their support for suffrage and women’s work outside the domestic sphere was accompanied by some conservative ideals, especially when it came to divorce, sexuality, and general impropriety, as Espinoza Meléndez found.[17]

They viewed the vote as an essential tool to bring about a very specific version of Mexico, one in which neither unfettered capitalism nor communism took root, as generally validated by Catholic social doctrine. In the context of the Cold War and the unstable post-revolutionary political landscape, these views had important implications. Needless to say, ACM activists’ vision of  Mexico was different than that imagined by other political groups. By recognizing these complexities, we can begin to understand and humanize historical subjects more fully. Considering a diversity of historical opinions, especially those expressed by women, can get us closer to answering questions that historians have asked for decades. I also suggest that the study and characterization of their brand of patriotism, as well as their views of modernity should continue to be researched.

Daniela Roscero Cervantes graduated from the University of Texas at Austin in 2023, receiving degrees in history and journalism. This article is based on her history thesis, Conservative “feminists”: Women’s Citizenship, Suffrage and Political Representation I Mexican Catholic Discourse, 1940-1953. She is currently enrolled at the University of Chicago to complete a master’s in social sciences with a concentration in history. Her research interests focus on modern Mexico, as well as the history of the borderlands, Mexican-Americans, and U.S.-Mexico relations.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Benson Latin American Library Rare Books collection, The University of Texas, Austin, Texas.
Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum, accessed December 7, 2023, Vatican.va.

Mexican Bulletins Collection. UNAM, Mexico City, Mexico.

Mexican Catholic Action Collection. Iberoamerican University, Mexico City, Mexico. Mexican Bulletins Collection. UNAM, Mexico City, Mexico.

Secondary Sources

Bard, Christine. “L’apotre Sociale et L’ange du Foyer: les Femmes et la C. F. T. C. a Travers Le Nord Social (1920-1936).” Le Mouvement Social no. 165, (1993): 23-41

Barry, Carolina and Enriqueta Tuñón Pablos. “Capítulo 9: Las Sufragistas Mexicanas y su Lucha por el Voto,” In Sufragio Femenino: Prácticas y Debates Políticos, Religiosos y Culturales En Argentina y América edited by Carolina Barry, 250-278. Buenos Aires: Universidad Nacional de Tres de Febrero, 2011.

Blasco Herranz, Inmaculada. “Citizenship and Female Catholic Militancy in 1920s Spain.” Gender & History 19, no. 3 (2007): 441-466.

Boylan, Kristina A. “Gendering the Faith and Altering the Nation: Mexican Catholic Women’s Activism 1917-1940.” In Sex in Revolution: Gender, Politics, and Power in Modern Mexico, edited by Jocelyn Olcott, Mary Kay Vaughan, Gabriela Cano, 199-222. North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2007.

Boyle, Joseph. “Rerum Novarum.” In Catholic Social Teaching: A Volume of Scholarly Essays, edited by Gerard V. Bradley and E. Christian Brugger, 69–89. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019.

Cano, Gabriela. “Mexico: The Long Road to Women’s Suffrage.” In The Palgrave Handbook of Women’s Political Rights, edited by Susan Franceschet, Mona Lena Krook, Netina Tan, 115-127. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019.

Ceballos Ramírez, Manuel. “Historia De Rerum Novarum en Mexico (1891).” In El Catolicismo Social: un tercero en discordia, Rerum Novarum, la “cuestión social” y la movilización de los católicos mexicanos (1891-1911). Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1987.

Dau Novelli, Cecilia. Società, chiesa e associazionismo femminile: l’Unione fra le donne cattoliche d’Italia (1902-1919). Rome: AVE, 1988.

Espinoza Meléndez, Pedro. “Antifeminismo y feminismo católico en México: La Unión Femenina Católica Mexicana y la revista Acción Femenina, 1933-1958.” Revista Interdisciplinaria de Estudios de Género de El Colegio de México 6, no. 6 (2020). http:// dx.doi.org/10.24201/eg.v6i0.381.

Morton, Ward M. Woman Suffrage in Mexico. Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, 1962.


[1] Christine Bard, “L’apotre Sociale et L’ange du Foyer: les Femmes et la C. F. T. C. a Travers Le Nord Social (1920-1936),” Le Mouvement Social 165 (1993): 23-41.

Cecilia Dau Novelli, Società, chiesa e associazionismo femminile: l’Unione fra le donne cattoliche d’Italia (1902-1919) (AVE: 1988).

Inmaculada Blasco Herranz, “Citizenship and Female Catholic Militancy in 1920s Spain,” Gender & History Vol. 19, No. 3 (2007): 441-466.

[2] Pedro Espinoza Meléndez, “Antifeminismo y feminismo católico en México. La Unión Femenina Católica Mexicana y la revista Acción Femenina, 1933 – 1958.” Revista Interdisciplinaria de Estudios de Género de El Colegio de México 6, no. 6 (2020) http://dx.doi.org/10.24201/eg.v6i0.381.

[3] Esther Chapa, The right to vote for women, 1936, p.9, Benson Latin American Library Rare Books collection, The University of Texas, Austin, Texas.

[4] Esther Chapa, The right to vote for women, 1936, p.9, Benson Latin American Library Rare Books collection, The University of Texas, Austin, Texas.

[5] Carolina Barry and Enriqueta Tuñón Pablos, “Chapter 9: Mexican Suffragists and Their Fight to Obtain the Vote,” in Sufragio Femenino: Prácticas y Debates Políticos, Religiosos y Culturales En Argentina y América (Caseros, Argentina, Buenos Aires: Universidad Nacional de Tres de Febrero, 2011), p. 261-265.

[6] Ward M. Morton, Woman Suffrage in Mexico (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, 1962), p. 21-25.

[7] Gabriela Cano, “Mexico: The Long Road to Women’s Suffrage,” in The Palgrave Handbook of Women’s Political Rights(London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019), p. 119.

[8] Manuel Ceballos Ramírez, “The Rerum Novarum Encyclical in Mexico (1891)” in El Catolicismo Social: un tercero en discordia, Rerum Novarum, la “cuestión social” y la movilización de los católicos mexicanos (1891-1911) (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1987), 51-67.

[9] Kristina A. Boylan, “Gendering the Faith and Altering the Nation: Mexican Catholic Women’s Activism 1917-1940,” in Sex in Revolution: Gender, Politics, and Power in Modern Mexico, ed. Jocelyn Olcott, Mary Kay Vaughan, Gabriela Cano (North Carolina: Duke University press, 2007), 210-234.

[10] Joseph Boyle, “Rerum Novarum,” in Catholic Social Teaching: A Volume of Scholarly Essay, ed. Gerard V. Bradley and E. Christian Brigger, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 68-89.

[11] Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum, 22, 24, 30, 61, 63.

[12] Report of the co-secretary for June 25th 1939 Central Committee Meeting, 22 May 1939, 2.2.1.1 Sessions of the Central Committee 1930-1978 box 1, folder 2 1934-1939, Archivo ACM, Iberoamerican University, Mexico City, Mexico.

[13] Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum, 42.

[14] Anonymous, “Prepare Yourself for Our Assembly,” Juventud, September 1938, 16, Section 6-Publications, box 7, bound book starting 1938, Mexican Catholic Action Collection, Iberoamerican University Historical Archives, Iberoamerican University, Mexico City, Mexico.

[15] E. Emma Galán G., bulletin titled “My Vote as a Mexican Catholic Woman,” 13, 35 Mexican Bulletins Collection, National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM), Mexico City, Mexico.

[16] Notice number twenty-three from the Central Committee, ca. May 1939, 2.2.1.1 Sessions of the Central Committee 1930-1978 box 1, folder 2 1934-1939, Archivo ACM, Iberoamerican University, Mexico City, Mexico.

[17] Pedro Espinoza Meléndez, “Antifeminismo y feminismo católico en México. La Unión Femenina Católica Mexicana y la revista Acción Femenina, 1933 – 1958.” Revista Interdisciplinaria de Estudios de Género de El Colegio de México 6, no. 6 (2020) http://dx.doi.org/10.24201/eg.v6i0.381.

Banner image via Pexels – Photo by Luis Ariza: https://www.pexels.com/photo/mexican-flag-on-flagpole-13808918/

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1900s, Features, Latin America and the Caribbean Tagged With: feminism, Mexico, Women and Gender

Loosening the Grid: Ideas for Mapping the Human Experience (IHS talk report)

banner image for Loosening the Grid: Ideas for Mapping the Human Experience (IHS talk report)

Geographic Information Systems, or GIS, has become increasingly popular with historians because of its ability to visually present information and arguments that would otherwise be difficult to explain in text. However, not all history can be assigned a nine-digit number and placed on a map. “Loosening the Grid: Ideas for Mapping Human Experience,” the keynote address that kicked off this year’s Institute for Historical Studies (IHS) research theme of “Experiencing Place: Interrogating Spatial Dimensions of the Human Past,” questioned the ability of GIS to fully convey the human experience and offered some new ways to include more subjective data in geospatial practices.  

Keynote presenters Dr. Anne Kelly Knowles and Levi Westerveld explained how testimonies from Holocaust survivors pushed them to find alternatives to traditional mapping via a method called coordinate geography and how their current work builds on their first experiments. Knowles, currently the McBride Professor of History at the University of Maine and co-founder of the Holocaust Geographies Collaborative, started out using traditional GIS to map historical events like the Battle of Gettysburg (view her TED-Ed talk here). She was eventually persuaded to study how to map experiences that cannot be reduced to straightforward grid coordinates. Together with one of her now-former graduate students, Levi Westerveld, a senior engineer at the Norwegian Coastal Authority, they developed a unique and ground-breaking “geographic language” to map these survivor testimonies.

Event poster

IHS Director Dr. Mark Ravina opened the event by noting that while GIS can tell us a lot about specific locations and events, Knowles and Westerveld’s work is exciting because it “lies beyond conventional GIS” and addresses how “we map human experiences that don’t have geospatial data.” While extremely useful for understanding some parts of our world, Ravina pointed out that Knowles and Westerveld’s intervention comes from the inside – as historical geographers and devotees of the technology. They demonstrate that GIS can be “the wrong tool for massive parts of human experience.”

Teleconferencing from a small town in northern Norway, Westerveld opened the talk with a discussion of traditional cartography and some of the potential limitations that maps have for conveying the lived experiences of people on the ground. He said that while maps are a good way to deliver information, like changes to permafrost levels due to climate change, they often fail to inspire any larger actions because they “fail to connect with our imagination, our feelings, and our ability to put ourselves in the future that these maps are trying to present, and what this means for the human experience for the people living” in these locations.

Weswterveld’s presentation included some examples of his work on the human migration currently happening in the Mediterranean. He emphasized how changing the perspective and presentation of the information on maps can better tell the story of what is occurring on the ground and possibly reach the more emotional side of the viewer. Comparing one of his maps alongside a photograph from a failed immigration attempt, Westerveld said that he wants maps to inspire similar emotional connections as a way to foster broader social, political, or cultural change in the same way a photograph can: “I think there is room for creativity and innovation in the language of cartography for us to bring [the] geographical representation of space closer and more inclusive to the human experiences, not only for communication but also for analysis.”

Screenshot from the Holocaust Geographies Collaboration website
Screenshot from the Holocaust Geographies Collaboration website,
courtesy of Anne Kelly Knowles
and Levi Westerveld

Knowles acknowledged that she started the project without a background in Holocaust studies, history, or geography. However, being a leader in Historical GIS, she was contacted by the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. and was asked whether she thought “that GIS might be useful for studying the Holocaust?” She worked with the Museum, as well as other GIS and Holocaust experts, as they pored through millions of documents containing various geographic information. The result was a series of interdisciplinary workshops that created various maps focused on different scales – from the continental all the way down to individual bodies – that used geographic information to demonstrate spatial patterns.

The group produced many different and useful maps. Still, some members were frustrated with the inability to find the “people” in these maps – especially when the maps themselves were based on testimonies from survivors. To address these concerns, Knowles and Westerveld started to question how GIS and cartography, more generally, could represent the actual lived experiences of Holocaust survivors. Instead of building yet another database, Westerveld and other student researchers turned to more “old school” methods – physically drawing out timelines based on the testimonies, sometimes with markers and crayons, sometimes on chalkboards, and even once with Styrofoam and string. By going back to basics, the team could identify the type of spatial and temporal evidence that existed in testimonies.

A woman drawing a map, 1943.
“The basics” of map drawing: Private Arline MacKenzie is shown using a contour finder at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, circa 1943. The contour finder uses photographs to translate elevation into map contours. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

The team realized that many of the most important retellings from survivors centered on small spaces – sometimes even just a single room. They began to pour over the transcripts from interviews with survivors, highlighting all the mentions of space, often finding that important locations were based on places where the survivors could use all of their senses. This meant that locations where survivors spent more time often had more detailed information, even if that space was much smaller than what is traditionally required for mapping.

Attempting to balance scale and specificity, the team began to map testimonies in a way that was inclusive of the geographic data they found. They based their maps on mathematical topology. In mathematics, a topological space is a geometrical space, like a circle or square, where closeness can be defined but not necessarily measured with numbers – a great analogy for trying to map testimonies where the locations can be defined in relation to each other but not necessarily given a grid number.

Many of the maps look like what you would see in a biology textbook: circles filled with dots and other circles, some of which had fuzz or darkened clouds drawn on top. However, these circles represented the large but less specific locations in these testimonies, such as a city or large camp. The smaller dots could represent much more specific locations, such as a house or bedroom, and their location in relation to the other circles and dots represents their relative locations between each other and within the testimony. The final maps, then, represent less the geospatially correct locations you might see on a traditional map and focus more on what the survivors experienced, where, and the importance of these places to them.

U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washington, D.C.
U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washington, D.C. Source: Library of Congress

Knowles expands further on the importance of place between geography and survivor testimonies with her work on another collaborative project entitled Placing the Holocaust. Building on the experience of mapping testimonies with Westerveld, the project incorporates the named places in accounts and includes the important goal of identifying and analyzing “unnamed and non-coordinate places” that the team often saw in the previous project. With the help of machine learning, the testimonies will be coded for both named and unnamed places, “almost none of which, in this unnamed category, have been tagged in other transcript datasets.”

Screenshot from "I Was There" project
Screenshot from “I Was There” project, Courtesy of Anne Kelly Knowles and Levi Westerveld

Another aspect of the project looks much more traditional, with dots over a map of Eastern Europe in ArcGIS. Each data point represents a camp or ghetto and includes information about each site from the US Holocaust Memorial Museum’s authoritative encyclopedias. The goal, Knowles says, is for the two data sets to be combined or integrated: “What we want to set up is a dialog between the places of experience and the places as recorded largely in perpetrator data.” For instance, from the traditional map we learn that ghettos were more often surrounded by barbed wire than walls. Students or researchers interested in this aspect could then narrow in on testimonies of survivors and their memories of barbed wire, looking to see where these testimonies came from and their frequency in the record.

While GIS remains useful and important way of visualizing historical information, Knowles and Westerveld make it clear that there are still limitations to its use when it comes to representing the lived experience of the people who often make up those data points. It takes a fresh perspective and multidisciplinary approach to develop innovative methods that better represent how people actually experience spatial information. “Loosening the Grid” is just the start regarding how historians can better use geospatial techniques in their work and their telling of history.

Learn more about the keynote talk and presenters here.

You can also view the full discussion here:


The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1900s, Europe, Features, Institute for Historical Studies, Material Culture, Politics, Research Stories, Science/Medicine/Technology, Teaching Methods, War Tagged With: GIS, The Holocaust

Capstone Research – Afro-Latino Maroons: 1530 – 1700

At Not Even Past, we are always delighted to highlight superb undergraduate research. Below we feature a project drawn from Dr. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra‘s capstone undergraduate seminar which was taught in Fall 2023. The course was a hybrid with roughly half focused on reading secondary and primary sources and half devoted to an independent research project. Below we feature Leo Filyk’s fascinating capstone project, Afro-Latino Maroons: 1530 – 1700.

In his introductory essay to Maroon Societies: Rebel Slave Communities in the Americas (1996), Richard Price attempts some generalizations “comparing African maroon societies in a time perspective;” that is, their changing characteristics between the 16th and 18th centuries (37):

Communities formed in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries seem to have differed from those formed later, both in the types of men they chose as leaders and in the models used to legitimize their authority. Before 1700, the great majority of maroon leaders on whom we have data were African-born. Moreover, four of the six major leaders (Ganga Zumba, Domingo Bioho, Yanga, and Bayano) claimed to have been kings in their African homelands. During this period, models of monarchy were frequently appealed to… In contrast, after the beginning of the eighteenth century, maroon leaders only very rarely claimed princely descent from Africa, tending instead to style themselves captains, governors, or colonels rather than kings. Moreover, a striking number of leaders during this period were Creoles, quite out of proportion to the number of American-born men in the general slave population… I would like to suggest, particularly for this period, that the nature of maroon (and colonial) society made the person who was skilled at understanding whites, as well as his fellow maroons, especially valuable as a leader (19-20).

Through the course of this essay, I will argue against Price’s framework, contending that the features he relates to 18th century maroon communities, namely the Hispanicized leadership and extensive knowledge of whites, were already prominent characteristics of certain maroon societies in the 16th and 17th centuries. Using, in particular, primary sources on maroons from 16th century Panama, along with a number of primary sources involving maroons in 16th century Ecuador and 17th century Colombia, I maintain that a subset of Spanish American maroon communities in the 16th and 17th centuries had highly acculturated, or ladino, leaders, who effectively used their knowledge of Hispanic language and culture to defend their communities. Additionally, some of the traditional, African-inspired monarchical leaders of this earlier era were more Hispanicized than Price’s comparison between the centuries may suggest. These acculturated maroon leaders, of which some, in fact, were American criollos (American-born), showcased an ability to speak and/or write Spanish, allowing them to send personal letters to colonial authorities. They demonstrated to those officials their Catholic piety and an understanding of what behavior, ideas, and rhetoric would appeal to them. 

In making these arguments, I do not mean to suggest that maroons displaying an extensive knowledge or assimilated identity around Hispanic language, culture, and religion, took on such characteristics at the expense of African language, culture, and religion. Rather, as scholarship on the formation of New World identities has shown, African slaves were both highly adaptive and resilient in combining aspects of Hispanic culture — which oftentimes was introduced to them on the African coast or ingrained in societies like the Kongo — with their personal, native African culture and worldview (Berlin; Lovejoy; Mintz and Price). African-born slaves transported to the New World, who made up the large majority of maroon communities and their leaders in the 16th and 17th centuries, retained their African identities, including the practice of traditional rituals, even as they mixed with those identities aspects of Spanish culture and the cultures of diverse African tribal heritages brought together through the slave trade. Religious and cultural syncretism were obviously key characteristics of the African, New World experience.

Read the whole project here

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Memories of War: Japanese Borderlands Experiences during WWII

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When I visited Rosy Galván Yamanaka’s home in Piedras Negras, Coahuila, she had a bowl of Mexican-style udon prepared for me. I sat down in her dining room and listened as she told me stories of her grandfather, José Ángel Yamanaka, a Japanese migrant who arrived in Mexico at the beginning of the twentieth century. Like many other Japanese migrants, Yamanaka arrived to work in the coal mines of Coahuila. Eventually, he settled in Piedras Negras. This city on the Texas-Mexico border is not just a place with a community of Japanese Mexicans, it is also a border town currently witnessing the arrival of large groups of Honduran, Venezuelan, and other migrants. Though not apparent at first, the overlooked histories of Japanese communities in Mexico and Texas during WWII and the stories of migrants at the border today highlight similar experiences of exclusion, criminalization, and violence.

Rosy (on the right) pictured with her mother (center) and younger brother (left) during a visit to her grandfather’s home in Monclova, Coahuila.
Rosy (on the right) is pictured with her mother (center) and younger brother (left) during a visit to her grandfather’s home in Monclova, Coahuila. Courtesy of Rosy Galván Yamanaka.

After recalling she possessed a few photographs of her family from 1942 to 1945, Galván Yamanaka began telling me how her grandfather had relocated to Monclova, Coahuila, during the war. Her grandfather had moved south to Monclova after Mexican President Manuel Ávila Camacho ordered all Japanese living near the border to relocate to Mexico City and Guadalajara. The Yamanaka family was separated for three years, but they were fortunate to be in the same state. Other Japanese Mexican families were not able to visit their relatives due to costs and long distances. Galván Yamanaka is aware that her grandfather was forced to leave Piedras Negras and relocate to Monclova during the war because she was born in 1941, at the start of the war. She carries these stories of the war time years because of the time she spent with her grandfather and older family members and she believes it is her duty to share them with the younger generations in her family.

Japanese Mexican memories of WWII are often obscured. Some Japanese-Mexican families do not know what happened to their family members during the war. For many, it took years to discover why their families were forcibly separated by the Mexican state regardless of their Japanese relatives’ citizenship. These memories of war then remain within each Japanese Mexican family. Some Japanese Mexican families do not know about the discrimination faced by their relatives and that they were forced to leave their homes. In fact, most Mexicans are unaware of this part of Mexican history.  

In January 1942, President Ávila Camacho ordered all Japanese migrants and Japanese-Mexican communities near the Pacific coast and the U.S.-Mexico border to relocate to central Mexico. The Mexican government gave Japanese Mexicans 24 hours to evacuate and move to Guadalajara and Mexico City. The government also stopped accepting naturalization applications from Japanese migrants and prevented Japanese nationals and Japanese Mexicans from collecting funds from banks or making any money exchanges.[1]

The government’s response to the Pearl Harbor attack of December 1941 targeted Japanese communities near the U.S.-Mexico border and the Pacific Coast, as these (and other) communities were marked as a “threat” to both the U.S. and Mexico.[2] Japanese Mexicans were responsible for organizing their own travel to Central Mexico and reporting their relocation to the government. Unlike some countries in Latin America, the Mexican government did not work with the U.S. government to deport its Japanese communities to camps in the U.S.[3]

The stories of Japanese incarceration in the U.S. and the forced removal of Japanese Mexicans are often not told together, obscuring the ways both the Mexican and American governments were complicit in the racialization and criminalization of Japanese communities during the war.[4] By telling transborder stories of WWII, we learn Mexican intelligence agencies, along with the FBI, the Border Patrol, Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS), and local law enforcement in the Texas-Mexico border, were part of the relocation, removal, and policing of Japanese nationals and Japanese families from the border region. These narratives not only include northern Mexico and Texas in histories of Japanese exclusion and policing during the first half of the twentieth century, but they also illustrate how collaborations between agencies and officials in the U.S. and Mexico have long affected immigrant communities at the border.

US-Mexico border map
US-Mexico border map

For instance, the Crystal City camp in Texas, which opened in 1942, was located 50 miles east of Eagle Pass-Piedras Negras. It was used to hold Japanese Americans, Japanese Latin Americans, and other incarcerees of Italian and German descent. This camp was operated by Border Patrol and INS agents. Still, this history of Japanese incarceration is not often remembered within the histories of criminalization and exclusion in South Texas and the U.S.-Mexico border region. The presence of this Japanese incarceration camp in South Texas, like the displacement of Japanese Mexican communities in northern Mexico, is also not part of the regional communities’ memories. Both cases uncover hidden narratives of surveillance and policing of Japanese communities at the border that began decades prior to WWII.[5] These histories also reflect a longer history of family separation as families of Japanese Americans, Japanese Mexicans, and Japanese Latin Americans were split from their families and forced to move across state and national borders.

“Behind Barbed Wire” poster for the Japanese American National Museum’s Day of Remembrance in 2019.
“Behind Barbed Wire” poster for the Japanese American National Museum’s Day of Remembrance in 2019. Courtesy of the JAMN (https://www.janm.org).

Today, artists and community organizations are highlighting the convergence of past and present forms of incarceration and policing through their work. This drawing by Japanese-American artist Elyse Imoto illustrates the similar criminalization and violence experienced by Japanese communities during the war and of Mexican, Central American, Haitian, Venezuelan, and other migrants at the U.S.-Mexico border in recent years.[6] The juxtaposition of one child in black and white and another in color marks a past and a present. One child is painted in black and white and resembles a young Japanese-American girl held during the period of Japanese incarceration in the 1940s. The second child pictured on the right is depicted in color and resembles a young Mexican or Central American child at the U.S.-Mexico border in the present. The background includes a watchtower, buildings that were typically found in incarceration camps, and a “United States Port of Entry” sign with figures that resemble armed Border Patrol agents.

Migrant detention has been on the rise since 2016, and as of August 2022, there have been 372 cases of family separation since 2021.[7] Cases of family separation at the border are a result of policies that criminally convict migrants and separate any parents or adults crossing with children. One might not immediately think the conditions and treatment of migrants on the U.S.-Mexico border today are related to the treatment of Japanese communities and their forced removal during the war. However, those incarcerated in the Crystal City camp and Japanese Mexicans living in the states of Chihuahua, Coahuila, Nuevo León, and Tamaulipas were forced to relocate and leave their families and communities behind. The history of Japanese displacement during WWII is seen as distant from the Texas-Mexico border and not related to larger histories of incarceration and violence in the region. Yet, the migrant experiences in South Texas are part of a continuous normalization of violence that is deemed acceptable by the state through its language and policies for “national security” or against possible “threats” or “criminals.” Japanese incarceration near the Texas-Mexico border and the current state policies related to migration and citizenship at the U.S.-Mexico border are part of a process of exclusion that developed as a result of racialized immigration and enforcement policies of the twentieth century.

Tsuru solidarity banner
Courtesy of Tsuru for Solidarity (https://tsuruforsolidarity.org)

In the U.S., groups like Tsuru for Solidarity are trying to change this by sharing their experiences and the stories of family separation during WWII to #StopRepeatingHistory.[8] Tsuru for Solidarity is a project that is made up of Japanese American and Japanese Latin American social justice advocates and their allies, and the group leads campaigns across the U.S. to educate the public on the history of Japanese incarceration and build solidarities with other groups that are targeted by racist immigration policies. Some of the participants are members of Japanese families that were incarcerated during the war or descendants of former incarcerees. They lead campaigns outside of immigrant detention centers across the U.S. to protest conditions in these centers and policies like family separation.

The history of Japanese incarceration, forced removal, and family separation during the war on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border illustrate the legacies of violence that have longer ties to anti-Asian exclusion in the late 19th century. The legacy of these policies reverberates into the present with the criminalization and incarceration of migrants and asylum seekers on the U.S.-Mexico border. Descendants of Japanese families and community activists in the U.S. and Mexico are sharing their memories within their families and communities, thus making sure these stories are not forgotten.


Lucero Estrella is a PhD candidate in American Studies at Yale University, and she is currently a Visiting Research Affiliate at the Institute for Historical Studies (IHS) at UT Austin. Her dissertation is a study of the histories of Japanese migration and community formation in Texas and northeastern Mexico across the 20th century. Her dissertation examines how Japanese mining and farming communities in Coahuila, Nuevo León, and Texas are critical to histories of race, migration, and empire. Using oral histories with Japanese communities on both sides of the border and sources from state and local archives in Mexico, Japan, and the U.S., her work illustrates how Japanese Americans and Japanese Mexicans, and the national and global forces that structured their lives, shaped the histories of Mexico, Japan, Texas, and the U.S.-Mexico border region.

[1] María Elena Ota Mishima, Siete migraciones japonesas en México 1890-1978. (México: El Colegio de México, 1982), 97.

[2] The surveillance of Japanese communities in northern Mexico was not new, and U.S. surveillance of Japanese settlements in Mexico between the 1920s and the 1940s were fueled by U.S. state anxieties over the expansion of Japanese empire and fear of “yellow peril.” See the works of scholars Eiichiro Azuma, Jerry Garcia, and Sergio Hernández Galindo for more: Sergio Hernandez Galindo, La guerra contra los japoneses en Mexico durante la segunda guerra mundial: Kiso Tsuru y Masao Imuro, migrantes vigilados, First edition. (Mexico City: Itaca), 2011; Jerry Garcia. Looking like the Enemy: Japanese Mexicans, the Mexican State, and US Hegemony, 1897-1945. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2014; Azuma, Eiichiro. “Japanese Immigrant Settler Colonialism in the U.S.-Mexican Borderlands and the U.S. Racial-Imperialist Politics of the Hemispheric “Yellow Peril”.” Pacific Historical Review 83, no. 2 (2014).

[3] Countries like Peru, Panama, Ecuador, Bolivia, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Venezuela worked with the U.S. to forcibly deport and incarcerate Japanese Latin Americans in camps in the U.S. Some Japanese living in Mexico, such as high-level officials, diplomats, and a small number of Japanese nationals and Japanese-Mexicans living near the border were incarcerated in the U.S. For more on Japanese incarceration in Mexico see Selfa A. Chew, Uprooting Community: Japanese Mexicans, World War II, and the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands, (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, 2015).

[4] Scholars have debated the use of “internment” and “incarceration” among other words like “detention” and “confinement.” Densho, a Japanese American non-profit organization based in Seattle, “encourage the use of “incarceration,” except in the specific case of Japanese Americans detained by the Army or DOJ.” Historian Connie Chiang notes that incarceration conveys the lack of freedom faced by those of Japanese ancestry and I use “incarceration” for this reason. See “Terminology – Densho: Japanese American Incarceration and Japanese Internment.” Densho: The Japanese American Legacy Project. https://densho.org/terminology/#incarceration; Connie Y. Chiang. Nature Behind Barbed Wire: An Environmental History of the Japanese American Incarceration. (Oxford University Press. 2018).

[5] Concerns over Japanese and other Asian migrants bypassing immigration restrictions and crossing the U.S.-Mexico border to enter the U.S. extended across the border into Northern Mexico and were fueled by a transborder Yellow Peril. These concerns were not only about unauthorized Japanese immigration into the U.S. but also about large Japanese colonies forming in Mexico and Japanese purchasing large concessions in Mexico. See Eiichiro Azuma, “Japanese Immigrant Settler Colonialism in the U.S.-Mexican Borderlands and the U.S. Racial-Imperialist Politics of the Hemispheric ‘Yellow Peril,’” Pacific Historical Review 83, no. 2 (2014): 255–76.

[6] This drawing by Imoto was used as the poster for the Japanese American National Museum’s Day of Remembrance in 2019. This was used as the cover to their program as well as the image used to promote the in-person event hosted at JANM in Los Angeles.

[7] “Biden is Still Separating Migrant Kids from Their Families.” Texas Observer. November 21, 2022.  https://www.texasobserver.org/the-biden-administration-is-still-separating-kids-from-their-families/.

[8] For more on Tsuru for Solidarity and their campaigns and efforts see: https://tsuruforsolidarity.org.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1900s, Biography, Crime/Law, Features, Immigration, Latin America and the Caribbean, Race/Ethnicity, United States Tagged With: immigration, Japanese Americans, Mexico, World War II

Review of The River of No Return: The Autobiography of a Black Militant and the Life and Death of SNCC, by Cleveland Sellers (with Robert Terrell), 1990

Banner image for Review of The River of No Return: The Autobiography of a Black Militant and the Life and Death of SNCC, by Cleveland Sellers (with Robert Terrell), 1990

The life of the American Civil Rights Movement of the mid-twentieth century was chaotic and confusing, and the telling of its history reflects this confusion. Often, the story of the movement is reduced to overly simplified depictions of a few prominent leaders: the righteous and powerful Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the brave and defiant Rosa Parks, and the controversial activist Malcolm X.

So much is lost in such retellings. In reality, the movement was in motion for decades and involved hundreds, if not thousands, of people working on the ground to rally and empower Black people nationwide. These often faceless men and women shadowed by the handful of great leaders have their own stories of adversity, struggle, and oppression. Such a story is found in the life of Cleveland Sellers and the SNCC.

Book cover

In his autobiography, The River of No Return, Cleveland Sellers provides powerful insight into the inner workings of the Civil Rights Movement and one of its most prominent organizations, The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). He sheds light on the complicated and often incredibly violent process of fighting oppression in the mid-twentieth century United States. Exploring themes of generational differences, ideological shifts within the movement, and white terror tactics, Sellers unfolds an inspiring story of struggle, pain, and the fight for Black liberation. 

This is not a congratulatory story celebrating the victories of the Voting Rights Acts of 1964 and 1965 or how the courts and legal system were able to save Black Americans from the oppression that seeped into every crevice of their lives. It does not provide solace that the movement was successful and there was no further work to be done. Rather, Sellers’ story depicts the dirty underbelly of the rural south, one that was aggressive and unforgiving to those attempting to change the status quo, and the ultimate disappointments of the legal action taken in the name of “equality” for African Americans.

A talented and engaging storyteller, Sellers takes the reader on a journey through his childhood and early adulthood. It begins in his hometown, Denmark, South Carolina, a town with a very small, tightly-knit population and incredibly strict racial divides. Sellers describes the implicit discriminatory rules of his upbringing; a type of segregation was not necessarily aggressive or violent, but maintained through power and wealth. The Black and white communities of Denmark lived almost completely separately, and though the Black community was prosperous on its own, Sellers notes that the “specter of white racism” would always linger “like last night’s bad dream.” This prepares a peaceful yet ominous image that contrasts with the brutal racism, violence, and direct and outspoken oppression Sellers soon encounters. Like many other young, Black activists at this time, he left for college seeking involvement in the movement, with heavily strained parental relations in his wake.

Segregation at the bus station in Durham, North Carolina, 1940
Segregation at the bus station in Durham, North Carolina, 1940. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

There are numerous instances where Sellers describes in heavy detail the experiences of violence and fear the members of SNCC went through. These descriptions convey the hardship of this fight in a sense that cannot be grasped through a lecture or textbook. After he declares the movement as his first priority (over school or social life), Sellers leans wholeheartedly into his dangerous work, noting an SNCC leader who claimed they were now on “the river of no return”. Sellers builds tension as he describes his first march in Cambridge, Maryland. As the marchers approached the line of national guardsmen, the latter intended to put a stop to their march by any means necessary. The glinting silver of the bayonets, and the “Ah-HUMP CLUMP, Ah-HUMP CLUMP” sound of boots running towards the marchers illustrates the fear these people felt at the moment, which only increased as a soldier approached with a converted flame thrower filled with a substance stronger than tear gas. Sellers conveys with vivid imagery the screaming, panic, and hysteria that followed the gas attack that left people “too sick to help themselves” in the face of oncoming gunfire. These critical stories of terror and pain do not fit easily within the narrative that “nonviolence is the only answer”, which ignores the aggression and brutality the movement was often met with.

After beginning his work with SNCC in rural Mississippi, Sellers encountered a level of racism and white violence that he had never experienced before, and many would never experience in their lifetime. In Sellers’ view, white southerners held a general attitude that involved the idea that “their” Black communities were good ones, and outside agitators were coming in to “stir them up.” This meant the status quo and racial power imbalance were upheld without question, and black organizers posed a threat to it. While the SNCC worked to develop a grassroots campaign for the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party in one of the most dangerous areas of the state, three SNCC members disappeared and were presumed dead due to racial violence. Here, Sellers uses detailed imagery to truly place the reader in the swamp and woods of rural Mississippi alongside the search party as they hiked in silence and darkness to avoid being detected by hostile white farmers.

H. Rap Brown from the SNCC holding a news conference
H. Rap Brown from the SNCC holding a news conference. Source: Wikimedia Commons

A strong ideological division emphasized early in the book between the older and newer generation of Black Americans,is pointedly illustrated by Sellers through later conflicts between SNCC and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), the organization headed by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The young members of SNCC leaned more strongly toward direct action, and felt they were responsible for fighting racial oppression themselves. Sellers details a feeling of moral right and wrong among the organization’s members. For them, the struggle was simply something that had to be done.

Unlike the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Dr. King’s method of large demonstrations attracting media attention to pressure action through the courts, the SNCC focused on poor black communities and organized them to take power in areas with a large black population. Sellers emphasizes the importance of grassroots organization to SNCC and empowering African Americans in their own communities. At the largest point of conflict between the two organizations, Sellers describes the vulnerable state the Southern Christian Leadership Conference demonstrations would leave the community in while SNCC lived and worked with the people, intentionally building up their political power and confidence.

SNCC sidewalk marker, 1961
SNCC sidewalk marker, 1961. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Years passed, and after the assassination of Dr. King, the already fragile and weakened organization of the SNCC fell into even further disrepair amidst political and ideological divisions, financial difficulties, and increased aggression from law enforcement attempting to dampen the remaining sparks of the movement. Yet, not all was lost. Sellers describes his strong attachment to Black Power and its rise in response to lack of legal action from the federal government to solve the real issues faced by the black community: economic disparity and de facto disenfranchisement. The emergence of Black Power as an ideology and a movement provided a renewed opportunity for the organization to grasp onto, encouraging Black communities to believe in their autonomy and their ability to have power over their own lives.

Though Sellers finishes with the death of the organization he had dedicated years of his life to, his story is one of remarkable resilience. The movement consumed his entire life during this period, and he eagerly dedicated his blood, sweat, and tears to the cause of black liberation. Even still, he notes in the last words of his autobiography that he is not unique in his experience. There were many people who felt as strongly and acted as bravely in the name of the cause; they collectively “became one with the struggle”. Sellers was accompanied by numerous friends and colleagues dedicated to the same purpose: releasing Black Americans from the heavy weight of systemic oppression. They committed their lives; all floating together, down the river of no return.


The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1900s, 2000s, Biography, Books, Race/Ethnicity, Reviews

3 Great Books about Japan

From the editors: Since its creation, Not Even Past has published hundreds of reviews covering a wide range of periods, places and issues. In this series, we draw from our archives to suggest three great books focused broadly around a single topic. In this article, we present three fascinating and important studies related to Japan.

Our three book suggestions cover a lot of ground from John Dower’s classic examination of Japan’s experience of defeat in the years following World War II to Aiko Takeuchi-Demirci’s pioneering investigation of birth control and eugenics in Japan and the US to the rowdy and unexpected life of a Tokugawa samurai. These books showcase some of the best scholarship on Japan. Our reviews come from three wonderful scholars, David Conrad, Kellianne King and Edgar Walters who provide insightful analysis of these important studies.

David Conrad writes:

“Dower sets out to convey “some sense of the Japanese experience of defeat by focusing on social and cultural developments. . . at all levels of society.”  Initially, the bitter reality that their exhausting war had ended in defeat proved profoundly demoralizing for many Japanese citizens. Dower’s portrayal of the shantytowns of bombed-out Tokyo provides poignant evidence of the impoverished condition in which many Japanese found themselves at war’s end.  But as Japan embarked on its long occupation interlude, its citizens seized opportunities to start over, rebuild, and redefine their nation.  Defeat became a creative process rather than a destructive one and the people of Japan embraced it with eagerness.  In the atmosphere of reform that characterized the occupation, an efflorescence of what Dower calls “cultures of defeat” emerged.  For example, kasutori culture explored the sleazy underside of urban life.  Radical political movements tested the limits—and sincerity—of American reformism.  Changes in artistic images, popular entertainment, songs, jokes, and even the Japanese language itself reflect the vitality and diversity of Japanese culture during the American occupation.”

Read the full review here.

Kellianne King writes:

“Contraceptive Diplomacy travels uncharted territory by investigating transpacific attempts to bolster state power through a combination of birth control and eugenics. Takeuchi-Demirci’s work reminds us that U.S. eugenics projects did not exist in isolation, but on the world stage during a century fraught with international conflict. In working together to promote population control, Japan and the United States actually competed to demonstrate their cultural and scientific superiority. Feminist-led initiatives became, as Takeuchi-Demirci calls it, “a tool for patriarchal control and world domination” (210). Born in an anti-imperialist and socialist climate during the first World War, birth control traveled in imperialistic ways to facilitate international diplomacy. Takeuchi-Demirci shows the different ways discourses can be manipulated to serve dominant desires, and how even those who initially resisted this co-option, such as Sanger, become complicit. While the argument that eugenics served state goals is not particularly new, Takeuchi-Demirci does shed light on previously ignored Japanese-American projects. Her work makes this scholarly oversight appear all the more glaring given Sanger’s extensive involvement with the Japanese government and women’s groups.”

Read the full review here.

Edgar Walters writes:

“Musui’s Story is an exceptional account of one man’s hell-raising, rule-breaking, and living beyond his means. The autobiography documents the life of Katsu Kokichi, a samurai in Japan’s late Tokugawa period who adopted the name Musui in his retirement. Katsu is something of a black sheep within his family, being largely uneducated and deemed unfit for the bureaucratic offices samurai of his standing were expected to hold. As such, he typifies in many ways the lower ronin, or masterless samurai, many of whom famously led roaming, directionless lives and wreaked havoc among the urban poor and merchant classes. The autobiography follows Katsu’s whirlwind of adventures, which involved a great deal of fighting, name-calling, and extortion. What Katsu lacks in ambition is more than made up for by his knack for getting into trouble. The supposed premise of the autobiography is to serve as a cautionary tale for his descendants, as Katsu advises from the very beginning, “Take me as a warning.” In actuality, however, the story smacks of a thinly veiled account of braggadocio.”

Read the full review here.

Filed Under: Features

Notes from the Field: The Strange Case of Thome Corea

banner image for Notes from the Field: The Strange Case of Thome Corea

From the editors: Notes from the Field is a series with a long history at NEP. In this latest iteration, the series has three broad areas of focus. First, Notes from the Field is designed to take readers into unexpected corners of the world’s great archives and to explore the experience of working there. We aim to describe some of the spaces and places in which historians work every day. Second, we’re interested in fascinating stories that might not become the central focus of a book or an article but which nonetheless reveal intriguing corners of the past. And third the series discusses the often unexpected experiences of doing fieldwork where each day can bring new challenges, joys or discoveries. Together these stories form our new Notes from the Field.

I’m a historian of early modern East and Southeast Asia, so I’m fortunate to work in some of the most interesting archives in the world. I spend a lot of time at the National Archives in The Hague, a city in the Netherlands with a long history. This archive stores hundreds of thousands of documents connected with the Dutch East India Company (the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC), which carved out a commercial empire in Asia in the seventeenth century.

I’ve used archives across four continents. The National Archives is undoubtedly the most accessible and user-friendly archives I’ve ever worked in. You can travel there by train, registration is simple, and it’s easy to get access to original documents rather than poor microfilmed copies. It’s a wonderful place to work.

But it can also be a little overwhelming. Within an hour after arriving, you can find yourself confronting huge piles of documents, invariably written in the dense and idiosyncratic script of VOC employees. That script, especially as used in earlier documents, can takes dozens of hours per source to decipher.

VOC documents
Author’s photograph, VOC documents

The challenges involved in doing research at the National Archives are daunting, but this also makes working there exceptionally exciting, as historians frequently come across documents that no one has seen in hundreds of years. One of my favorite documents is just one page long. It’s a confession signed by Thome Corea, a ‘Japanese’ mercenary who was stationed on a remote island in Southeast Asia in 1623.

The document is connected with the Amboina conspiracy case, the subject of my recent book. The case started with one of Thome Corea’s fellow soldiers. On February 23rd, 1623, a Japanese mercenary called Shichizō, in the employ of the Dutch East India Company, was arrested for asking questions about the defenses of one of the company’s forts on the remote island of Amboina in modern-day Indonesia. 

a photo the of document that talks about Thome Corea's cse

When he failed to provide an adequate explanation, he was subjected to the “torture of water”: a cloth was “put before his face and fastened behind his head, hanging upon under his chinne, [and] after this the water was poured upon his head.”  The result of this process, which we would call waterboarding today, was a confession claiming that Shichizō had joined a plot orchestrated by a group of English merchants. The merchants allegedly hoped to seize control of the VOC fortification and ultimately to rip the spice-rich island from the company’s grasp.

Armed with this information, the VOC governor proceeded to arrest, interrogate, and torture the remaining ten Japanese mercenaries in the garrison, all of whom (including Thome Corea) admitted to signing onto the plot in return for a substantial reward. A few days later, attention turned to the English, who also confessed–again, under torture–to a role in a conspiracy aimed at the “taking of the castle, and the murdering of the Netherlanders.” On March 9th, an improvised tribunal of VOC employees with the governor at its head convened to render judgment on the conspirators. The result was an emphatic guilty verdict, and shortly thereafter, ten English merchants and ten Japanese mercenaries were executed in the public square outside the fortress.

Imagined depiction of torture
Imagined depiction of torture RP-P-OB-68.279, Rijksmuseum

The case became enormously controversial in Europe. When news of what had happened reached London in 1624, it sparked an immediate outage. English officials denounced the flawed nature of the judicial procedures while ridiculing the notion that a conspiracy had existed in the first place. As news of the trial spread, propelled by the publication of cheap broadsheet ballads and incendiary pamphlets, everyone seemed to be talking about Japanese soldiers and their particular capabilities.

For Dutch writers determined to emphasize the potential strength of the Amboina plotters, the Japanese were fearsome warriors capable of swaying the outcome of any conflict. A “small number of Japonians were not slightly to be regarded,” exclaimed one writer, as the “valour & prowess of that Nation” made them far more potent than an equivalent contingent of European soldiers. Not so, scoffed their English opponents, who claimed that the Japanese were no military “Gyants” and that the wondrous feats ascribed to them nothing more than “Apochriphal Legends” with no basis in fact.

Column of Japanese Soldiers
Column of Japanese Soldiers, Anonymous, 1600 (RP-P-OB-75.407, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

One of the ‘Japanese; soldiers caught up in the Amboina case was Thome Corea. He was tortured and waterboarded by Dutch officials and rapidly confessed. But as he was illiterate, he could not sign his name. Instead, he made a rough mark.

Close-up of Thome Corea's confession
Close-up of Thome Corea’s confession

Although he represented himself as a ferocious Japanese soldier, Thome Corea was not actually Japanese. In fact he was Korean. And he had a remarkable life. We know from the records associated with the trial that Corea was aged fifty in 1623, meaning that he was born around 1573. He was thus likely brought to Japan in the turbulent aftermath of Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s massive invasion of Korea in 1592.

He probably came to Japan as a young captive along with tens of thousands of Korean children, women and men who were enslaved by the returning armies. Keinen, a Buddhist monk who traveled to Korea as part of the invading forces, observed the mass transport of children: “They are carrying off Korean children and killing their parents. Never shall they see each other again. Their mutual cries—surely this is like the torture meted out by the fiends of hell.” (1) Thome Corea may have been one of these children.

At some point, he secured his freedom but was unable to return to Korea. Instead, like so many of his countrymen he was drawn to western Japan’s bustling cosmopolitan ports like Nagasaki or Hirado. There he seems to have eked out a living until the Dutch East India Company came recruiting. It offered three year contracts, dangerous work, and poor conditions–but also the promise of a steady wage.

Corea’s unlikely career suggests that the Company’s attempts to recruit legion of Japanese soldiers to fight on its behalf opened up an unexpected space for reinvention, one in which a Korean captives could morph, in search of a stable wage, into a fearsome Japanese soldier. If so, Corea was not alone in making this change. VOC records include multiple references to “Japanese” soldiers with names that suggest links to places like Macao, China or Korea but who were able to take advantage of new opportunities afforded by the Company’s martial visions.

Thome Corea generated just a few lines in the sources and one hastily scrawled cross to mark his confession. He was part of important events in global history but he did not drive them. But his story is important. Like so many historians, I love working in the archives because I’m able to uncover evidence of hidden lives. Thome Corea is an example of such a life.


(1) Wm. Theodore de Bary, Donald Keene, George Tanabe, and Paul Varley, ed. Sources of Japanese Tradition : Volume 1: From Earliest Times to 1600 (Columbia University Press, New York, 2010: 467-72

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1400s to 1700s, Asia, Capitalism, Empire, Features, Slavery/Emancipation, Work/Labor Tagged With: Dutch East India Comapny, Japan

October 1973: Nixon’s decision to resupply Israel

Banner image for October 1973: Nixon's decision to resupply Israel

Note: This article was written and published before Hamas’ brutal attack on Israel on October 7, 2023.

“500 tanks!” exclaimed Henry Kissinger. The national security advisor-cum-secretary of state did not want to believe what he was hearing from the Israeli Ambassador Simcha Dinitz as he recounted the losses sustained by the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) during a meeting at the White House on October 9, 1973. It had been three days since Egypt and Syria launched a two-headed assault against Israel, and now, it dawned on Kissinger just how serious the latest Middle East crisis had become.

Kissinger and the rest of Richard Nixon’s administration faced a decision with titanic consequences. Should they send a flagging Israel the tanks, jets, and other weapons it needed to win the war? Or let the belligerents duke it out as is? The president and his administration chose the former. For the Israelis, this was a deliverance that could have come from God himself. Simply put, America’s resupply saved Israel.

Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir standing with president Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger outside the White House.
Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir standing with President Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger outside the White House. The photo was taken about ten months before the Yom Kippur War. Source: Library of Congress

The whole of the U.S. government was caught unawares by the outbreak of the Yom Kippur War, also termed the October War. As has been the case many times in American history, the intelligence was wrong. “Israelis do not perceive a threat at this time from either Syria or Egypt,” the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv reported to Washington on October 1. Yet the threat was all too real. The two Arab states, which Israel had trounced six years earlier in the Six-Day War, resolved to smash Israel and recover the territory they had lost: Egypt, the Sinai Peninsula(and Gaza), and Syria, the Golan Heights.

Egypt and Syria attacked at 2:00 p.m. on October 6, which that year fell on Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. The IDF scurried to beat back the onslaught. At first, its defenses were to little avail. Arab tanks, infantry, and planes ravaged the Israelis’ lines. They lost men and military assets left, right, and center.  

To the northeast, Syria took the southern Golan and threatened to roll on into the Sea of Galilee and the rest of northern Israel. To the southwest, the Egyptians crossed the Suez Canal and penetrated Israeli positions. Things took a grisly turn on October 8. Israeli losses kept on mounting while the country neared its breaking point. Celebrated general and future Prime Minister Ariel Sharon later called it “the black day” of the IDF.[1]

All the while, Washington debated how it should respond. Israeli requests for supplies came in earnest once it became apparent that, unlike in 1967, this would be no easy victory. Washington’s dilemma was not easy. It feared that a resupply would alienate the oil-rich Arab states. Another variable was the Soviet Union’s resupply of Egypt and Syria, both Moscow proxies. Should the United States respond in kind, the two nuclear-armed superpowers might stumble into war themselves. The stakes were immense.

Evacuating Israeli wounded from the southern front, 10.6.1973.
Evacuating Israeli wounded from the southern front, 10.6.1973.
Courtesy of IDF and defense establishment archive, photo no. 8320/298, by Avi Simhoni

Many in the administration favored withholding weapons. This was especially so of Secretary of Defense James R. Schlesinger and the rest of the Pentagon. “Our shipping any stuff into Israel blows any image we may have as an honest broker,” argued Schlesinger.

So began a contentious back and forth between Schlesinger, who feared the consequences of resupply, and Kissinger, who feared the consequences of the reverse. Kissinger was fed up with the Pentagon’s resistance to resupplying the Israelis. “They are anxious to get some equipment which has been approved and which some SOB in [the Department of] Defense held up which I didn’t know about,” he groused to White House Chief of Staff Alexander Haig, also a proponent of a resupply, by phone.[2]   

Henry Kissinger visits President Nixon at the White House
Henry Kissinger visits President Nixon at the White House. Source: Library of Congress

For his part, Nixon authorized providing all the military aid requested by Israel with one caveat. The U.S. government could not be openly complicit in the resupply lest the rest of the world find out. The Israelis would have to collect the weapons themselves from a base in Virginia. “The original order from President Nixon was,” Schlesinger recalled decades later, “‘Give them anything they want as long as they pick them up in El Al [the Israeli flag carrier] aircraft or chartered aircraft.’”

The Department of Defense did not like this one bit. Kissinger later wrote that Pentagon officials were happy “to drag their feet” and stop the Israelis from picking up the arms. “The Pentagon was not cooperative,” remembered Ambassador Dinitz, who said he could not get a meeting with Schlesinger until October 11, five days after the war started.[3] By October 8, the administration realized the existing arrangement was insufficient for the increasingly desperate Israelis. For the IDF to prevail, it needed vast quantities of American weapons. Nixon, who insisted that Israel “not be allowed to lose,” greenlit a major resupply plan on October 9 that he believed would ensure Israel’s survival.

Ambassador Dinitz and the Israelis were grateful. “All your aircraft and tank losses will be replaced,” Kissinger told him as he relayed the president’s decision. “We will get the tanks in even if we have to do it with American planes.” The resupply was on.

An M60 tank is unloaded from a U.S. Air Force Lockheed C-5A Galaxy in Israel during "Operation Nickel Grass" in 1973.
An M60 tank is unloaded from a U.S. Air Force Lockheed C-5A Galaxy in Israel during “Operation Nickel Grass” in 1973. Source: Wikimedia Commons

With his directive, Nixon came to the Jewish state’s rescue. The decision was not as clear-cut as it may seem in retrospect. He defied recommendations by his Department of Defense and many others in the Federal bureaucracy who were convinced that the resupply was not in America’s economic and political interests. Despite his own anti-Jewish prejudice, Nixon considered Israel a vital pillar of America’s global strategy. He could not forsake it. If Israel were to fall, the Soviets would chalk up another win in the zero-sum game of Cold War geopolitics. “We will not let Israel go down the tube,” Nixon vowed then.

Orchestrating the resupply proved difficult in practice. At first, the administration planned to airlift the materiel via civilian airliners. Yet no private insurers would assume the risk of sending them into a war zone. Richard Perle, then a chief aide to the ardently pro-Israel Senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson (D-WA), remembered meeting with a teary-eyed Ambassador Dinitz when he heard by phone that there would be no chartered flights.[4] The resupply was in doubt again.        

With civilian planes off the table and all other contingencies exhausted, the administration realized that it had no option but to provide military planes. The president was frustrated by his administration’s failure to get supplies to the Israelis, who were quickly running out of ammunition. “Do it now!” Nixon barked as he ordered the use of military aircraft.[5] In his memoirs, the president recalled urging his administration to “send everything that can fly” to Israel.[6] The airlift, alternatively called Operation Nickel Grass, was underway.

Over the ensuing month, C-5 and C-141 transport jets from the Air Force delivered 22,395 tons of supplies to Israel, stopping to refuel at Lajes Air Base in the Azores on the way. Thanks to indefatigable airmen, the planes would fly more than 500 missions over the course of the airlift. Navy ships and their sailors ferried more supplies by sea. The American resupply matched and surpassed its Soviet counterpart. One of the greatest operations of its kind in history, it was a herculean effort by the U.S. military to provide Israel with the tools to win the war.     

Israeli airplanes are cropping supply. Courtesy of IDF and defense establishment archive, photo no. 891610/11

The resupply was a godsend for the Israelis. American largesse helped them turn the tide of war, especially in the Sinai. Bolstered by the arms it so desperately required, the IDF repulsed the Egyptian offensive before launching one of its own. Egyptian resistance melted away as the Israelis crossed the Suez Canal and advanced within 99 kilometers of Cairo. On the other front, the Israelis retook the Golan. Israel had won when the war ended on October 25. It did not have to cede any territory to the Arabs. It nonetheless paid a steep price in the form of 2,656 dead and thousands more wounded.

There is little doubt the resupply was essential to the Israeli victory. The IDF was shellshocked and depleted, its supplies dwindling perilously. American arms arrived at just the right time. “Without our airlift, Israel would be dead now,” Kissinger said amid the fighting. Golda Meir, the intrepid Israeli prime minister, wrote in her memoirs that “it undoubtedly served to make our victory possible.”[7]   

Had Nixon and his people not come through, there’s no telling what would have happened to the Israelis. They had been staring at their defeat if not destruction. The Arabs were poised to recover the lands they had lost in 1967. Abba Eban, then Israel’s foreign minister, later acknowledged that before the resupply, Israel awaited a cease-fire solidifying the Arabs’ gains. “This would have meant that the Egyptians and Syrians had won the first round of the war,” he wrote.[8] The second round might have been even worse for Israel. A decimated IDF would likely not have been able to defend its territory. Arab leaders, who had a long track record of pledging to “throw the Jews into the sea,” could have had the opportunity to make good on their promise.

It turned out that the Israelis would not be thrown anywhere. They kept control of the Sinai and the Golan. Doing so allowed them to trade the former for peace with Egypt at the end of the decade, based on the land-for-peace formula. That agreement was also a diplomatic triumph for the United States. Once an ally of the Soviet Union, Egypt became a key American partner. Washington’s influence in the Middle East grew as Moscow’s weakened.  

Carter, Sadat, and Begin at the Peace Treaty Signing, March 26, 1979.
Carter, Sadat, and Begin at the Peace Treaty Signing, March 26, 1979. Source: Wikimedia Commons

To be sure, the United States incurred short-term costs because of the resupply. Most notably, Arab members of OPEC retaliated, embargoing the sale of oil to the United States and other countries backing Israel. They wielded the oil weapon in hopes of forcing Washington to back down. It did not work. Despite facing a quadrupling of the price of a barrel of oil, the Nixon administration and the American people would not be bullied. The resupply continued.

Nixon’s resupply was perhaps the greatest contribution any American president has ever made to Israel. His decision, which scholars and journalists to this day have not fully appreciated, was enormously consequential. To it, Israel likely owes its existence. Consider what has become of the Jewish state in the years since. Israel has come a long, long way since the Yom Kippur War. Today, it is among the wealthiest countries on earth and a global leader in advanced technology. It boasts a formidable conventional military and a nuclear deterrent to boot. It has full relations with six Arab countries, and that list may soon get longer. It is home to vibrant institutions that, whatever their faults, are the most democratic of any in the Middle East. Nixon’s resupply made all that possible.          

October 1973 has much to teach us about our current moment. As malignant powers threaten their neighbors worldwide, Washington should follow the Nixon administration’s example. We should not stand by while our foes devour our friends. The resupply is also a reminder of the primacy of national interests. Nixon’s resupply was no act of charity. He may have, in his heart of hearts, wanted to help the Israelis, but he decided with his head. The resupply was what was best for American security and prosperity. Like all other countries, the United States pursued its aims and ambitions, not those of another.               

This year, as Israelis commemorate the semicentennial of the Yom Kippur War, they are bound to remember the heroism and sacrifice of those who fought and died for their homeland. And well they should. Israelis are a proud, self-reliant bunch. They do not like counting on others to solve their problems. All the same, they ought to recognize that the United States rescued their country in its hour of greatest peril.      


Daniel J. Samet is a Doctoral Candidate at the University of Texas at Austin and an America in the World Pre-Doctoral Fellow at Johns Hopkins SAIS. He is completing his dissertation on U.S.-Israel defense relations. Some of the material in this article has been adapted from Daniel’s upcoming dissertation.

[1]. Ariel Sharon and David Chanoff, Warrior: The Autobiography of Ariel Sharon, 2nd Touchstone ed. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001), 303.   

[2]. Transcript of Telephone Conversation, October 7, 1973, 9:35 a.m., Henry A. Kissinger Telephone Conversation Transcripts, Chronological File, Box 22, 7 Oct 1973, 8, Richard Nixon Presidential Library.

[3]. Henry Kissinger, Years of Upheaval (Boston: Little, Brown, 1982), 486.

[4]. Author interview with Richard Perle, May 10, 2023.   

[5]. Henry Kissinger, Years of Upheaval (Boston: Little, Brown, 1982), 514.  

[6]. Richard M. Nixon, RN: The Memoirs of Richard Nixon (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1978), 927.  

[7]. Golda Meir, My Life (New York: Putnam, 1975), 431.

[8]. Abba Eban, Personal Witness: Israel through My Eyes (New York: Putnam, 1992), 533.  

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Filed Under: 1900s, Cold War, Features, Middle East, Politics, War Tagged With: 1973 Arab-Israeli War, Egypt, Israel, Richard Nixon, US History

Making Sense of the Major: Studying History at College

From the Editors: This is a new series designed to introduce the experience of studying History at college from the student’s perspective. It is designed to demystify the discipline and to make it more accessible to all students.

Whenever I tell someone I’ve just met that I’m a history major, they say something along the lines of “Oh, I could never do that, I hate history.” That’s fair enough. Not everything is for everyone; I have little interest in differential equations. But this distaste for history often stems, in fact, from a fundamental misunderstanding of what studying history actually is. Middle and high school history classes are designed to make everyone literate in history; they are not meant to teach someone how to be a historian.”. The result is that many people have a distorted view of what it means to actually study history. In the first article of a planned longer series, I want to dispel these misconceptions and talk about what history classes in college are actually like, what skills studying history teaches, and the kind of work history students do.

First, a disclaimer. I’ve only taken history classes at the University of Texas at Austin, and while I’ve looked over many other universities’ degree plans and requirements, and I want this series to be as generally applicable as possible, some details may be different from university to university. If you have any specific questions, email the university’s history advisors. They’re very friendly, and they want you to succeed.

Garrison Hall, the University of Texas at Austin.
Garrison Hall, the University of Texas at Austin. Source. Photograph by Adam Clulow

To answer everyone’s first question, studying history is not memorizing names and dates. Perhaps I shouldn’t confess this, and I apologize to any of my professors who are reading this, but I don’t really know the exact date of almost any of the events I’ve studied. That’s something that high school history classes focus on because it’s easy to turn the day of, say, the Pearl Harbor attack into a multiple-choice question: “What day was the attack on Pearl Harbor?”. Now, don’t get me wrong, you still need to know when some things happened, usually what year, but the order of events is far more important. “What political decisions did Japan and the United States make leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor?” is a question that takes much longer to answer and is much more difficult to turn into a multiple-choice question than the exact date.

But, of course, that question is also far more interesting and indeed significant. The Japanese government’s desire to secure their flanks from a surprise attack by the United States while they pushed further into China, the American oil embargo on Japan, and the invention of the Japanese long-range attack fighter A6M Zero may have made some kind of attack inevitable. Or perhaps it did not. Delving into questions like this is the point of studying history. The complex interplay between different social, economic, and political (to name a few) factors, not to mention the ever-present element of flawed human decision-making, cannot easily be distilled down to fit a standardized test. When your 10th-grade AP World History course has to cover literally all of human existence from the emergence of the first Homo erectus to the present, it only makes sense that they will have to leave some things out.

Second, history classes are not typically big lectures where you listen to a single teacher tell you what happened, memorize that, and repeat it back to them. Don’t get me wrong: some history classes are lectures, especially survey courses for freshmen and sophomores, designed to give a shallow overview of a wide topic, but the vast majority include some element of discussion. Your college isn’t going to want to give you a history degree because a professor made you memorize some facts about ancient Rome. They want you to interrogate the sources, discuss your conclusions with your peers, and become a well-rounded citizen capable of engaging across different levels. The best classes I took were not in massive 250-student lecture halls but smaller 20-person seminars where everyone had an equal opportunity to share their ideas.

A typical example of a History seminar room.
A typical example of a History seminar room. Photograph by Adam Clulow

If history classes are not about memorizing dates and facts as dictated by a dispassionate lecturer,  then what are they? Well, in fact, they are not too dissimilar from literature courses. Let me explain what I mean. Most days, when you attend a history class, you’ve already done most of the work. Before every class session, there will be some assigned reading, usually from a primary source relevant to what you’re learning in class. You’ll then show up to class, the professor will have a short presentation, usually to provide some additional context, and then they will ask some open-ended questions for you and your classmates to discuss. Things like “What does this remind you of?” or “What is the author getting at?” This is the same way that literature classes work. If you take a Shakespeare class, you’ll have to do the same thing: read an act or two of Two Noble Kinsmen and show up to class ready to discuss.

As for assignments, mercifully, worksheets are gone. In most history classes, you’ll only have a handful of things that you actually turn in for a grade. This is in contrast to STEM classes, which have pretty consistent, sometimes daily, homework to turn in. Most assignments are some kind of written essay, and the prompts are usually as open-ended as discussion classes. I’ve had essays focused on topics like how to define the word “secularism,” give an overview of some moon landing conspiracies, and assess whether I find a particular source trustworthy or not. These are straightforward prompts, and you can answer with almost anything, provided you can back it up with sources. For most classes these sources will be the ones you’ve already read, but some classes will also have a long research paper where you’re expected to do independent research. One unanticipated benefit to come out of the COVID-19 pandemic is that many universities and libraries digitized large sections of their catalog, so finding sources and doing research has never been more accessible. Finally, some classes will have formal midterms and finals, but these are usually straightforward. They typically take the form of a short paper written relatively quickly, a few paragraph questions, or very rarely the few dreaded multiple-choice questions.

The University of Texas Architecture Library.
The University of Texas Architecture Library. Source: Wikimedia Commons

This has two effects. It keeps you engaged in both the class and the subject, as you are provided the opportunity – and indeed expected – to form and share your own opinions; It also teaches you how to synthesize those ideas in the first place. Taking two different sources and using them to form your own, new opinion is one of the primary skills of historians. This is the bedrock of critical thinking and is becoming more and more valuable. In the digital age, where we are constantly bombarded with information and opinions, the ability to cut through the noise and try to find facts is essential to staying well informed.

Studying history also teaches fundamental research skills. It can be frustrating at times but getting your hands on a new text and interrogating it for fresh ideas is a deeply rewarding experience. For a personal example, when I was working on my thesis over the Texas Navy, I kept running into a problem where a lot of the diaries and accounts I was looking for were lost in 1881 when the Texas capitol burned down, taking with it many archives. I found fragments in other primary sources, and a few long quotes in secondary sources, but nothing complete. I struck gold when I was looking through a ship’s log one day in the archival reading room, when the content suddenly changed. The words flipped upside down and became a diary. I suddenly realized what I was holding. The Texas Navy was so broke towards the end of its existence that they could not afford a new log book when one ended, so the captain took one of his younger officer’s journals and used the blank pages as the new log book. When it was filed in the archives, whoever did the filing chose to list it as a log book and not as a diary. What I thought was dry positional and wind speed data had suddenly turned into a treasure trove of information. I’m not exaggerating when I say that was one of the most exhilarating moments of my college studies. And research is filled with little “gold mine” moments like these.

The Burning Capitol, Austin Nov. 7th, 1881.
The Burning Capitol, Austin Nov. 7th, 1881. Source: the Chalberg Collection of Prints and Negatives, Austin History Center.

Finally, studying history teaches you the value of communicating your ideas. Being a history major involves a lot of writing and talking. It’s all well and good to have a new idea, but you have to be able to communicate it effectively for the idea to get out and spread. At UT and at every other school I’ve looked at, there’s at least one course specially designed to teach students how to research history, but more importantly how to communicate it. By going to college, no matter what your major, you’re going to become knowledgeable on some advanced topics. That’s the point of going, after all. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell people what you learned. Most majors will have some sort of communications class built in, such as engineering communication or business communication, but the great part about history is that most of our work has communication built-in from the beginning. This means that if you become a history major, you’ll have much more experience communicating your subject than your peers in other fields.

So that’s what being a history major looks like. It’s not memorizing names, dates, and events. It’s about assessing sources, forming your own opinions and communicating them effectively. In the next part of the series, I’m going to go over why you should consider becoming a history major and what opportunities studying history can provide.

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