Talking about one’s own name may seem like a curious, almost intimate challenge. After all, our name is an essential part of who we are. Mine carries a story full of meaning, which I believe deserves to be shared.
It all started with the immigrant Takahide Daijó, my dear “jiichan”, who left Okinawa in 1917. He embarked alone, weighing only 45 kilos and at the age of 14. He didn’t speak a word of Portuguese and set off for a strange country with the courage of someone who dreams of a better future, even if uncertain.
Like so many others, my “jiichan” dreamed of returning to Japan, rich, as soon as possible. However, he knew that, in order to survive, learning Portuguese was more than a necessity; it was a matter of honor and determination. Self-taught, he not only learned to speak the language, but also mastered reading and writing to perfection.
But it didn’t stop there. Fascinated by the power of words, he stood out as an educator. At the age of 30, he earned his license to teach Japanese and, later, the title of Public Translator — a gigantic feat for someone who arrived with so little, but with an immense desire to succeed.
In 1936, he published something unprecedented: Practical Method of the Japanese Language. A pioneering work that sought to build bridges between the two worlds—Japan and Brazil—through language. He printed and sold 10,000 copies. For the time, this was extraordinary, but for me, it goes even further: it was a clear sign of his commitment to the Japanese community and his passion for teaching.
With this knack for bridging cultures, he opened an office to serve the needs of Japanese immigrants in the Araçatuba region. Everything seemed to be going well.
But then, war came. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, and soon after, the world was plunged into the chaos of World War II. The largest armed conflict in history, which would involve more than 100 countries and claim 70 million lives, had begun.
Brazil, aligning itself with the Allies, began to implement harsh measures against Germans, Italians and Japanese. The ban on the use of foreign languages hit my “jiichan” hard. The Japanese language was banned from public spaces, schools, churches and cultural associations. The government brutally closed many of these institutions, breaking the cultural bond that so many immigrants fought to preserve.
And then came the most painful blow: the atomic bombs that devastated Japan. The heart of my “jiichan,” who was already suffering from the distance from his homeland, must have broken to see his country in ruins.
But the story does not end with destruction. After the war, the world rose up to rebuild what had been lost. Two plans stood out: the Marshall Plan for Europe and the Dodge Plan for Japan. The same U.S. president who had ordered the bombs dropped was now leading the effort to rebuild Japan. To my jiichan, this was a painful irony, but also an understandable necessity. He saw the same hand that had caused the destruction now reaching out to offer a path of hope and reconstruction. The Dodge Plan, coupled with the strength and resilience of the Japanese people, brought Japan back to global leadership within a few decades.
And here begins my own connection to this story. The Marshall Plan was signed on April 3, 1948. Four days later, on April 7, 1948, my father was born and named Harry, after Harry S. Truman, and I inherited not only my father's name, but also that of my “jiichan,” Takahide. My name carries the weight of two generations of extraordinary men, and with that, I am Harry Takahide Daijó.
This is my story. It’s more than a name; it’s a legacy, a bridge between worlds, dreams, and the resilience that defines my family.
© 2024 Harry Takahide Daijó
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