Before the war, my parents were very proud people. They'd always
Before the war, my parents were very proud people. They'd always talk about Japan and also about the samurai and things like that. Right after Pearl Harbor, they were just real quiet. They kept to themselves; they were afraid to talk about what could happen. I assume they knew that nothing good would come out of it.
In the midst of human history, there are moments when the winds of fear and hatred shift so violently that the very foundations of identity and pride are shaken. Fred Korematsu, in his poignant reflection, paints a tragic picture of a people caught between the tides of war and prejudice. His words echo with sorrow: "Before the war, my parents were very proud people. They'd always talk about Japan and also about the samurai and things like that. Right after Pearl Harbor, they were just real quiet. They kept to themselves; they were afraid to talk about what could happen. I assume they knew that nothing good would come out of it." In these words lies the crushing shift from pride to silence, from the open expression of culture and history to the quiet retreat of fear and shame.
Before the eruption of the Second World War, the Japanese people in America carried a deep sense of pride in their heritage. They spoke of their ancient roots, of the noble samurai, warriors whose honor and strength were revered by all. It was a proud history, one that had weathered the test of time, carrying with it the nobility of ancestors who had fought and bled for their land. The samurai were the very embodiment of discipline, courage, and devotion to a cause larger than themselves. Yet, as Korematsu recalls, when the storm of Pearl Harbor struck and the world was plunged into chaos, the pride of his parents was replaced by fear, their voices silenced in the face of a nation that suddenly viewed them with suspicion and hatred.
The fear that Korematsu’s parents felt is a reflection of a much larger truth—how easily a people’s identity can be reduced to suspicion when the forces of war and xenophobia rise. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Japanese Americans, many of whom had lived in the United States for generations, were viewed not as loyal citizens but as potential enemies. The very pride that had once been a source of strength became a burden, as prejudice took hold. They were forcibly removed from their homes, their businesses destroyed, and their families sent to internment camps, their lives reduced to little more than shadows of who they had once been.
This tragic chapter in American history mirrors other moments when fear has led to the persecution of innocent people. Consider the Roman Empire, which, at times, fell prey to the same forces of suspicion and mistrust. During times of crisis, when the empire was under threat, those from distant lands or minority groups were often scapegoated, their identities distorted to serve the purposes of rulers who sought to unite the empire under one banner. But just as the samurai of Japan are a testament to honor and discipline, so too are those who suffered during the internment of Japanese Americans a reminder of the dangers of prejudice and the fragility of freedom.
Korematsu’s reflection speaks not only to the pain of his personal experience but to a larger moral: in times of conflict, we must resist the impulse to reduce people to mere stereotypes and suspicion. The tragic truth is that, often, when war clouds the judgment of a nation, innocent people are treated as guilty by association. The Japanese Americans, who had contributed so much to the growth of their country, were cast aside in the name of national security, and their pride was punished by the very country they had called home. It is a painful reminder that in times of war, the truth can easily be obscured by the fog of fear.
The lesson of Korematsu’s experience is one that we must carry with us in our own lives, for we too face moments when fear and suspicion threaten to tear us apart. In our own time, we are challenged by forces of division and xenophobia, often amplified by politics and media. The instinct to dehumanize others based on race, religion, or nationality is ever-present, and we must guard against it. Just as the Japanese Americans were dispossessed of their dignity, we too risk losing the values that have made us strong: the respect for one another’s humanity, the courage to stand up against injustice, and the wisdom to see beyond fear to truth.
In this moment, let us honor the lessons of the past and the voices of those who suffered. Let us remember the pride of the samurai, not as a relic of history but as a symbol of the strength we must show in times of adversity. Let us strive to cultivate a society where, in moments of crisis, we do not fall prey to fear or prejudice, but rise to the occasion with compassion, understanding, and respect for all people, no matter their heritage or background. Let us carry forward the legacy of those who endured the quiet suffering of internment, and let their silence remind us of the profound importance of never allowing fear to overshadow the values of honor, justice, and humanity.
TLvu thi thuy linh
I can’t stop thinking about the phrase ‘they were afraid to talk about what could happen.’ It’s chilling how uncertainty itself becomes a form of punishment. Korematsu’s recollection shows how fear isolates people even before violence or injustice occurs. It makes me question whether we’ve really learned from that history. In moments of fear, do we still repeat the same silence toward those who look different?
XTNguyen Xuan Truong
This quote carries such emotional weight because it personalizes history. It’s one thing to know about Japanese American internment; it’s another to feel it through a son’s memory of his parents’ silence. The shift from pride to fear captures how fragile identity becomes in times of hysteria. It’s a sobering reminder that prejudice doesn’t need justification — only a moment of national panic to thrive.
LPLan Phuong
The quiet described here says everything about the climate of fear and prejudice that followed Pearl Harbor. I’m struck by how Korematsu humanizes that experience — not through anger, but through memory. His parents’ silence is both protection and mourning. It makes me think about how patriotism can fracture under pressure, especially when belonging is conditional. What does loyalty mean when your country doesn’t trust you?
BBBao Bui
This reflection feels hauntingly intimate. Korematsu’s words reveal how fear silences culture, how pride becomes shame under suspicion. It’s heartbreaking to think that families who celebrated their roots had to suppress them just to survive. I can’t help but wonder — how many generations does it take to heal that kind of inherited fear? Or does silence simply pass from parent to child?
NCphan ngoc chau
I find this quote deeply moving. It shows how war doesn’t just destroy lives — it destroys identity. The image of proud parents suddenly going quiet says more than any history book could about Japanese American trauma during World War II. It makes me question how a society that prides itself on freedom could so quickly turn on its own people out of fear.