Hope in the Unimaginable
Easter 2026
by Lisa
I was deeply moved by letters from some of the hundreds of children currently held at the ICE detention facility in Dilley, Texas, recently published by ProPublica. One 9-year old from Venezuela, who has been detained for 50 days, writes: “I miss my school and my friends. I feel bad since when I came here to this Place, because I have been here too long.” And from a 14-year old from Honduras who has been detained for 45 days: “Since I got to this Center all you will feel is sadness and mostly depression.” As I grieve for these children, I also can’t help but hear echoes of the past.
Lisa welcomes the crowd. All photos courtesy of Rich Iwasaki
This year marks the 84th anniversary of President Roosevelt’s signing of executive order 9066 on February 19, 1942, which authorized the US military to forcibly remove and incarcerate over 120,000 Japanese Americans and Japanese immigrants living on the West Coast during WWII. The parallels between then and now are striking. We are once again bombarded with messaging depicting our immigrant neighbors with fear, suspicion, and contempt. They are a threat to our national security and way of life and therefore must be locked away or deported.
My Japanese American father was only 16 years old, a high school student, when he was forced to leave his home in California and sent to Gila River internment camp in Arizona. In honor of his memory and of what he and so many others endured, on February 22, 2026, as a member of Tsuru for Solidarity, I helped organize a Day of Remembrance rally and march to call for an end to ICE detention and deportations. As survivors and descendants of the mass removals and family separation targeting our community during WWII, we felt compelled to speak out. The rally included a performance by Portland Taiko, a candle lighting ceremony honoring all those who suffered the injustice of incarceration, and a variety of speakers, including Joni Kimoto, a survivor of Minidoka internment camp. It was incredibly significant for me to be a part of this event. I felt as if I spoke with my father’s voice and the voice of my ancestors, saying “Stop repeating history!”
Sadly, the one thing we did not plan for at the rally was the presence of an agitator with an extremely loud bullhorn who circled us, spewing anger and hatred throughout the entire program. And yet, as much as he wanted to drown us out and cause disruption, we carried on with dignity and grace. In fact, instead of our voices being suppressed, our protest was amplified and even reached national news with a clip on the Rachel Maddow show!
Protesters carry signs with the names of WWII camps and the number of people incarcerated at each.
Even in the midst of so much death-dealing chaos, deliberately unleashed by our own government, there are signs of hope.
We are living in a time when chaos and cruelty seem to have the upper hand, and it is easy to feel helpless. Yet even in the midst of so much death-dealing chaos, deliberately unleashed by our own government, there are signs of hope. As Sr. Ilia Delio reflects on the recent murder of Renee Good by ICE agents in
Minneapolis:
[Renee Good’s] life testified to a depth of love within her. She might have remained comfortably at home, yet she chose to join in the public protest of justice. Love propels us toward the unimaginable without realizing the unforeseeable. If mass movements signify a new religious awakening, Renee Good exemplifies the new contemporary martyr—not a death defending doctrine or dogma, but a witness to faith in the goodness of life —however lived.
Wherever compassion impels us to rise up for justice, we embody the power of love and faith in the inherent dignity and goodness of life. We sow seeds of Easter hope—hope in the unimaginable —even as the forces of death bear down upon us. We build a new solidarity that binds together what those forces are determined to tear apart. This is our heartfelt desire at Dandelion House this Easter Season: to continue to cultivate care and connection, to weave resilient bonds of community, to offer hope and hospitality to carry us through the many dyings that surround us into new life.