A death in detention in Tokyo and a bitter belated farewell
‘Kantan desu yo. There’s nothing to it, really,” said Pastor Kenji Wada cheerily, looking over his shoulder at me. “All I do is push this back and forth.” He thumbed a small metal lever near the steering column that served as throttle and brake.
The early-morning start had been my idea. I now sat slumped in the back seat, feeling sluggish — dazed, almost — wanting to be civil yet unsure of what to say. But no matter, for at just that moment the church door nearest the parking lot opened, and we both turned to watch Asae Wada emerge clutching a bible and her handbag. She hurried over to the car and slipped into the passenger seat beside her husband, saying to me more than him, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I greeted her in return. Pastor Wada gunned the engine and the car crunched over the cold gravel, heading out to the road for Tokyo and the long drive to Shinagawa.
Shinagawa. More than just another business district, or last stop of the shinkansen before it left Tokyo, Shinagawa was to many foreigners synonymous with the Tokyo Regional Immigration Bureau, an institution notorious for the cold demeanor of its staff. For a very small number of unfortunates, this same building represented their final stop in Japan: The fifth floor housed a detention facility for foreigners awaiting deportation. And this detention facility was our destination that morning just before Christmas in 2006.
I glanced at Wada as he drove. A bespectacled gentleman of perhaps 60, he had already announced his retirement from the ministry. This came as no real surprise to me; he had lost the use of his legs several years back after falling from a ladder, which made his job that much harder. But in the final months of his ministry, here he was, toggling the little metal lever and turning the wheel, guiding the car through the traffic, on the last humanitarian mission of his long career.
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