Japan attacks the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, killing 2,403 people. The F.B.I. moves quickly, arresting Japanese immigrants—many of them respected community leaders—on suspicion of being threats to national security. Within 48 hours, 1,291 people are taken into custody.
The day after the attack, President Franklin D. Roosevelt asks Congress to declare war on Japan. Soon after, the Justice Department closes the borders with Canada and Mexico to anyone of Japanese ancestry, regardless of citizenship. A few weeks later, it grants authorization for search warrants targeting homes where “enemy aliens” live. In the months that follow, thousands of Japanese American households are raided, with federal agents seizing anything that could be perceived as a weapon.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt signs Executive Order 9066, which authorizes military authorities to prescribe “military areas” and “exclude” civilians from those areas. While the order does not explicitly mention Japanese Americans, they are the only group forcibly displaced under its authority.
The U.S. Navy orders all Japanese Americans living on Terminal Island in the Port of Los Angeles—about 500 families—to leave within 48 hours. Many residents, who rely on fishing for their livelihood, are forced to sell their boats and equipment at a loss before being uprooted from their homes.
The Wartime Civil Control Administration sets up 16 “assembly centers”—makeshift concentration camps meant to temporarily hold Japanese Americans until more permanent camps are built. Many of these centers are located at fairgrounds and racetracks to minimize construction needs. At the racetracks, some families are forced to live in repurposed horse stables.
General John L. DeWitt, head of the Western Defense Command, designates sections of the West Coast as military zones, barring people of Japanese ancestry from certain areas. A curfew goes into effect in these areas from 8pm to 6am, severely restricting movement.
While many Japanese Americans feel they have no choice but to comply, a lawyer named Minoru Yasui challenges the curfew’s legality. To force a court case, he deliberately violates the order and turns himself in at a Portland police station, hoping to test the law in court.
The first Civilian Exclusion Order is issued, giving families on Bainbridge Island up to a week to prepare before being forcibly displaced from their homes. This order is the first of 108 that ultimately send tens of thousands of Japanese Americans to concentration camps.
While most feel they have no choice but to comply, some boldly resist. Fred Korematsu refuses to leave and is arrested on a street corner. Gordon Hirabayashi, a college student at the time, turns himself in, submitting a four-page statement explaining his constitutional objections to the exclusion order.
The months-long process of transferring incarcerees from “assembly centers” to more permanent War Relocation Authority concentration camps begins. A total of ten camps—Amache, Gila River, Heart Mountain, Jerome, Manzanar, Minidoka, Poston, Rohwer, Topaz, and Tule Lake—are scattered across remote areas of the country. At this point, barely three months have passed since Executive Order 9066. The camps, hastily constructed, are still incomplete—some lacking basic infrastructure like plumbing and electricity.
Faced with the mounting costs of incarcerating 120,000 people, the War Relocation Authority introduces resettlement programs aimed at relocating “loyal” Japanese Americans out of the camps and into areas outside the military exclusion zone. To be granted permission to leave, applicants must pass an F.B.I. background check, secure an outside sponsor, and navigate a lengthy and bureaucratic application process. Those approved are allowed to work as farm laborers, attend college, or seek employment in designated areas—though opportunities remain limited and heavily restricted.
The War Department announces the formation of a segregated unit for Japanese American soldiers and calls for volunteers from the camps. Still reeling from their incarceration, fewer than 1,000 incarcerees step forward at first. Despite this initial reluctance, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team is formed, and enlistment gradually increases. Over the course of the war, the unit earns an extraordinary number of military honors, including 4,000 Purple Hearts, 8 Presidential Unit Citations, 559 Silver Stars, and 52 Distinguished Service Crosses. For its size and length of service, the 442nd becomes the most decorated unit in U.S. military history.
Struggling to attract more resettlement applicants, the War Relocation Authority partners with the War Department to create a more streamlined process: the Application for Leave Clearance—better known as the controversial “loyalty questionnaire.” Now mandatory for all incarcerees over 17, the questionnaire serves as a tool to determine who is deemed “loyal” and eligible for resettlement. It also becomes a means of labeling those considered “disloyal,” who are then separated from the rest of the camp population and sent to the Tule Lake Segregation Center.
Question #27 asked: “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?”
Question #28 asked: “Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attacks by foreign or domestic forces, and foreswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power or organization?”
The first question troubled incarcerees who feared leaving vulnerable family members behind in the camps. It also offended Japanese Americans who had previously served in the U.S. military but were later discharged or reclassified as IV-C, a designation for enemy aliens.
The second question left many U.S.-born Japanese Americans confused—how could they renounce allegiance to the Japanese emperor when they had never pledged it in the first place? For foreign-born Japanese immigrants, the question raised even greater fears: answering “yes” could strip them of any legal nationality, as they were still barred from becoming U.S. citizens at the time.
The War Relocation Authority labeled those who answered “no” or refused to give an affirmative response as “disloyal” and sent them to Tule Lake Segregation Center. This group—known as “no-no’s”—made up about 12,000 of the 78,000 incarcerees surveyed. For decades after the war, “no-no’s” were stigmatized as traitors, both within the Nikkei community and by the broader public.
“Loyal” incarcerees from Tule Lake are transferred to other camps and “disloyal” incarcerees from other camps begin to arrive at Tule Lake. The camp’s population swells from 15,276 to 18,789—nearly 4,000 over capacity. While additional barracks are built, overcrowding worsens, and tensions rise between new arrivals and those already imprisoned there.
Struggling with low volunteerism from the camps, the War Department reinstates the military draft for Japanese American men—reversing their categorical exclusion after the Pearl Harbor attack. Officials frame this as a “restoration of equality” for Nisei, claiming they are once again being classified like other citizens. In reality, however, Japanese Americans are conscripted into a segregated combat unit and remain barred from serving in the Navy. While most incarcerees comply, a few hundred refuse, protesting the injustice of being drafted while still incarcerated. Many are arrested and face federal charges.
While some incarcerees had requested repatriation or expatriation to Japan as early as 1942, these numbers surged after the draft was reinstated—eventually reaching nearly 20,000, or 16% of the total incarcerated population. In response, President Roosevelt signs the Denaturalization Act of 1944, allowing U.S. citizens to formally renounce their citizenship. Some do so as an act of protest against their unconstitutional imprisonment, while others, fearing for their safety and separation from their families after the war, feel they have no other choice. Between 1944 and 1946, a total of 5,589 Japanese Americans give up their U.S. citizenship.
The U.S. drops the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Three days later, it drops a second atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Japan surrenders on August 14.
By this point, around 44,000 incarcerees remain in the camps, with many refusing to leave. Those who renounced their U.S. citizenship begin to realize they have few viable options for survival in war-torn Japan and start seeking ways to reverse their decision. Civil rights attorney Wayne M. Collins steps in, advising Tule Lake renunciants and launching a relentless 23-year legal battle to restore their citizenship. He files thousands of court cases on their behalf, challenging the legality of their forced renunciations. As the war ends, the concentration camps begin closing one by one.
On November 13, 1945—just two days before a ship carrying renunciants is set to depart for Japan—civil rights attorney Wayne M. Collins secures a court order halting their deportation until they can plead their case before a judge. Over the next four months, the Department of Justice conducts administrative hearings at Tule Lake Segregation Center, determining the fate of those who sought to undo their renunciations. Seven months after the war’s end, the last War Relocation Authority concentration camp finally closes.
Some Japanese Americans attempted to return to their former homes on the West Coast. However, many found their properties had been lost, sold, or vandalized during their absence.
As part of their resettlement programs, the War Relocation Authority established field offices in the Midwest and East Coast to encourage Japanese Americans to relocate to these areas and reduce the concentration of Japanese Americans on the West Coast. Seeking potential job opportunities, a significant number of Japanese Americans moved to cities like Chicago, New York, Denver, and Salt Lake City after the war.
Housing was a major struggle. Some lived in hostels, boarding houses, or public housing projects, while others rented garages or even pitched tents on their employer’s property just to have a place to stay as they worked to get back on their feet.
After the war, Elizabeth Okayama’s father traveled from Heart Mountain to Los Angeles to check on their family home and business. “When he went back to look at the place where we lived, he saw, in business windows, signs saying ‘No Japs Allowed’,” Elizabeth says. “My father was determined not to take his family back to that racist environment.” Elizabeth’s family ultimately decided to start their lives over in Chicago. To learn more about Elizabeth’s experience, click here.
Prior to their incarceration, Irene Shikibu Shigaki’s family had left their home in the care of a friend to rent out to tenants while they were gone. However, when they returned to Seattle, the tenants refused to leave. “My family lived literally a block down the street from their own house in the Japanese language school, which had been set up as a hostel for families returning to Seattle,” says her niece Erin.“That was a strange, almost torturous thing. They could see their house if they looked up the street.” To learn more about Irene’s experience, click here.
Prior to their incarceration, Mary Higuchi’s family had stored their belongings in a barn. When they returned after the war, they found the barn empty. “There was nothing there. Nothing except for broken boxes, empty boxes. Maybe a few broken dishes,” she says. With nowhere to return to, Mary’s family moved to a house with no indoor plumbing. It took Mary’s family nearly a decade to save enough money to put a down payment on farmland that they could call their own. To learn more about Mary’s experience, click here.
President Harry S. Truman signs the Japanese American Evacuation Claims Act, allowing former incarcerees to seek compensation for property lost due to their incarceration. However, the process is deeply flawed—claimants must provide detailed documentation, something few possess after the chaos of their forced removal. The Act also excludes compensation for lost income, personal injury, and other damages. In the end, the government pays out just $38 million—only a fraction of the $132 million in filed claims, and nowhere near the estimated $400 million in actual losses. Many families end up paying more in legal fees than they receive in compensation.
A few years after the final claims were settled under the Japanese American Evacuation Claims Act in 1965, former incarcerees Raymond Okamura and Edison Uno launch a grassroots campaign demanding reparations for all those who had been unjustly incarcerated. As momentum for redress grows, the U.S. government establishes the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians to investigate the detention program and the constitutionality of Executive Order 9066. The nine-member commission holds hearings in major cities across the country, gathering testimony from more than 750 witnesses—many of whom share their personal experiences of incarceration for the first time.
Drawing inspiration from the Civil Rights Movement and leaders within their own community—notably, Buddhist minister Sentoku Maeda and Christian minister Shoichi Wakahiro, who journeyed back to Manzanar every year after the war to honor those who died there—Japanese American student activists lead the first organized pilgrimage back to a former concentration camp. This inaugural event, attended by around 150 people, inspires a decades-long tradition that continues at most of the 10 former concentration camps today.
The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians releases its landmark report, Personal Justice Denied, followed by its Recommendations on June 16. The 467-page report concludes that Executive Order 9066 was not justified by military necessity, but rather driven by “race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership.” The commission’s recommendations call for a formal presidential apology and $20,000 in compensation for each surviving incarceree.
Researchers Peter Irons and Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga uncover wartime documents revealing that government attorneys deliberately withheld, altered, and even destroyed evidence that contradicted the claim that Japanese Americans posed a national security threat. This discovery casts new doubt on the landmark Supreme Court rulings in the cases of Gordon Hirabayashi, Fred Korematsu, and Minoru Yasui, exposing how the government manipulated evidence to justify mass incarceration.
Intelligence reports from the Office of Naval Intelligence (O.N.I.) directly contradicted the government’s justification for mass incarceration, stating that thorough investigations had found no evidence of espionage or sabotage among Japanese Americans. In a January 1942 memo, Lt. Kenneth Ringle of the O.N.I. concluded that “the entire Japanese problem has been magnified out of its true proportion, largely because of the physical characteristics of the people.”
Internal documents from the U.S. Department of Justice further revealed that some government officials—including then-Attorney General Francis Biddle and Assistant Attorney General Edward Ennis—knew that the military’s claims of “military necessity” were baseless.
Researchers also uncovered evidence that key government reports had been altered to remove information that undermined the justification for incarceration. A memorandum revealed that Charles Fahy, the solicitor general who argued the wartime cases before the Supreme Court, was aware of the O.N.I. reports and other exculpatory evidence but deliberately withheld them. This suppression of crucial information violated the government’s legal duty to provide the Court with all relevant facts.
President Ronald Reagan signs the Civil Liberties Act, officially apologizing for the wrongful incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II. The Act grants $20,000 in compensation to each surviving incarceree and acknowledges the injustice they endured. The legislation states that “a grave injustice was done to both citizens and permanent resident aliens of Japanese ancestry” and affirms that the incarceration was carried out “without adequate security reasons and without any acts of espionage or sabotage”—instead, it was driven by “racial prejudice, wartime hysteria, and a failure of political leadership.”