Russ Crawford - Canadian Samurai: One Mans Battle for Acceptance

Canadian Samurai

One Mans Battle for Acceptance

By Russ Crawford

Canadian Samurai

Russ Crawford 2020

Published by Agrinomics Publishing.

For more information visit www.CanadianSamurai.ca.

Cover and book design by Castelane.com.

Bushido icons designed and produced by Keiko Onodera., Ideogram.us

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-9992805-0-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9992805-1-2

BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural, Ethnic & Regional / General

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the 22,000 Japanese Canadians who were wrongfully and inhumanely interned or otherwise detained in Canada during World War II. These detainments were the worst kind of racism and intolerance in our country and around the world.

Perhaps we want nothing better than to forget the raw wounds of yesterday, to cover the scars with delusions of security, but what was once taken away can be taken again. Who knows but that the next time will be made easier by the plunderers because we shrugged and said: shikata-ga-nai (it cant be helped).

Muriel Kitagawa

Prologue

Port Coquitlam, British Columbia, Canada April 1, 1951

He knew exactly where to dig. Nine years had passed since George last set foot on the rich delta soils of this small family farm in British Columbias Fraser River Valley. The sun had set an hour ago leaving the countryside in darkness. Even with limited visibility he knew it would be easy to find the hidden package. This had been his home for nearly twenty years.

His heart raced. His pulse throbbed, almost pounding in his ears as he anticipated the discovery of the package, a treasure he had buried during that fateful week in 1942. It felt much longer than nine years since their world had been shattered. Slowly they were recoveringfinancially, mentally and emotionally. George knew the lives of his family members could not be restored to what they once had been but he knew this one article could bring some comfort. Beyond his family, the lives of all Canadians of Japanese descent would never be the same. His mission this night was simple: to reclaim one small vestige of his familys honor and to recover an important symbolic memento for his family.

Like many spring evenings on the coast, this one was cool and humid. It had been pouring for four straight days. This was nothing new. The dampness in the air created a wall of low hanging mist that left a film of moisture on Georges clothes as he walked through it. Everything was soaking wetthe ground, buildings, fences and the lush foliage. Water dripped from the lowest points on branches and buildings as it accumulated on surfaces, collected into droplets and sought the fastest route to ground. The air was succulent with the aroma of cherry blossom trees in full bloom.

The sights, sounds and smells triggered many memories for George as he waited patiently before the final leg in his questmemories of the farm, his childhood and then of racism and hatred.

George Mitsui waited until he was certain no one was at home at the farmhouse which just nine years ago was his familys home. It wasnt like he was stealing anything, or was it? No, he was retrieving his familys property, hidden to protect it from the thieves who stole everything else belonging to them.

I am just recovering what is rightfully ours, he justified to himself. So why did he feel like he needed to do this in secrecy, under a cloak of darkness? Why was his pulse racing and why was he behaving like a thief? He had become suspicious, untrusting, even cynical since he, his family and all Japanese Canadians had become personae non gratae in Canada.

Just shy of thirty years old, George was strong and agile. He was shorter than the average Canadian, more typical of men who shared his Japanese heritage. He moved adroitly along his route in the familiar terrain. The sights and sounds and smellsoh the farm smellswere all too familiar to him, taking him back as if he had been here just yesterday. He crept toward the rear of the yard, passing the well theyd dug for water, the brooder house theyd built to raise chickens and then behind the barn. He paced out ten steps along the post and wire fence line and located the spot. He plunged his small shovel into the soil and hastily but carefully began excavating the small dig like an archeologist at work. Thanks to the rain, the earth was soft and yielded to the blade with little resistance. George worked cautiously, careful not to damage the precious package he had buried here in haste before he and his family were forced to leave.

He moved a half-dozen shovels of soil, tossed the spade aside and proceeded to remove the dirt by hand. He had wrapped it well to protect it from moisture and decay, never dreaming that it would be nearly a decade before he would return to reclaim it. Nor did he ever imagine it would be one of the few family possessions remaining after their devastating personal experience. Yet, in all those years, the cache never left his mind because it represented more than just a family heirloom; it represented his fathers courage and dignity as well as the historic pride of his Mitsui ancestors.

After a few minutes of pushing the soil and rotted leaves aside, he reached the package. The heavy burlap with a waterproof liner should have protected it, he hoped. After ten minutes of effort, he pulled a two-foot-long parcel from the hole and brushed off the loose dirt. Quickly, he filled in the hole and scurried back to his car, hoping no one would think he was a thief running from the property in the cover of darkness with a bulky package under his arm.

Georges original plan had been to let his father unwrap the package once he returned to Ontario, but his plan changed when he finally held it in his hands. He couldnt stand to wait. In fact, he couldnt even wait until he got back to his hotel room. He lifted the trunk of the car to gain some protection from the mist, shook off the remaining dirt and unwrapped the object. Layer by layer he tore back the wrapping and cheesecloth, finally revealing its mysterious contents under the light of a near full moon breaking through gaps in the cloud cover. The familiar orange and black silken furoshiki wrap was still in place and the gently curved shape was unmistakable.

Beautiful, he thought, simple but so symbolic. George removed the silk, revealing the familiar arched case. Reverently grasping the case with his left hand and the handle with his right, he drew a sleek sword from its scabbard. The blade glistened in the evening moonlight as small droplets of mist collected on the surface. This was not just any sword; it was his great grandfathers sword and his fathers before him. It was a samurais sword.

Five days later in Hamilton, Ontario

Back in the small family home in Hamilton, Ontario, George Mitsui sat on one of the yellow vinyl-covered chairs at the chrome and Arborite kitchen table across from his father, Masumi. His mother, Sugi, stood behind George facing her husband so she could watch Masumis reaction as he opened the parcel. Their family had endured so many horrible experiences in the past decade and they were long overdue for a happy moment.

The modest house and furnishings were substandard in comparison to their beautiful farmhouse in Port Coquitlam, but this was all the family could afford now. Their furniture was well used and a bit tattered, but the home was clean and well kept.