“I don't really know how to react to people when they say, ‘Oh, I saw that you're endangered.’ It's not a congratulations, that's for sure,” Alan Takashi Riley says. 

In May, Los Angeles’s Little Tokyo Historic District—a beacon of both Japanese and Nikkei (Japanese American) culture—joined Philadelphia’s Chinatown on America’s 11 Most Endangered Historic Places, a list published by the National Trust for Historic Preservation. At the community’s gateway, paper lanterns baking underneath the Californian sun sway over curious tourists, regular shoppers, and multi–generational residents. However, they also bear witness to what has disappeared: trinket shops, historic restaurants, and the beloved Wishing Tree, where visitors tied their dreams to bamboo stalks. 

The origins of Little Tokyo are intertwined with patterns of immigration and labor in the United States. Following the implementation of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which barred Chinese laborers from entering the nation, Japanese workers emerged as a preferred alternative due to their perceived affordability. This demand spurred a significant influx of male Japanese immigrants along the West Coast, where they were initially recruited for seasonal agricultural labor. 

In 1885, former sailor Hamanosuke “Charles Hama” Shigeta catalyzed the area's transformation by opening Kame Restaurant, a pivotal establishment that laid the foundation for what historians now recognize as the birth of Little Tokyo. Kame uniquely provided a gathering place and sense of community that further sparked concentrated settlement around East First Street in downtown Los Angeles. In the following decades, Little Tokyo became the fastest–growing Japanese community in the U.S. and flourished with businesses, educational institutions, and newspapers. 

The prosperity of Little Tokyo and Japanese American communities on the West Coast came to an abrupt halt with the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941. Amidst escalating suspicions about the loyalties of Japanese residents, President Franklin Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066. This directive sanctioned the forced relocation of 120,000 Japanese Americans to inland incarceration centers. Once a bustling enclave of thriving businesses and homes, Little Tokyo was left a ghost town. 


When the war ended, a handful of Japanese residents and business owners trickled back into Little Tokyo with hopes to reestablish their communities. However, many residents returned home without the staples—like rice, chopsticks, and bowls—they had once been accustomed to prior to internment. 

As a response to this need, Yuko Tanaka and Junichi Onishi founded Rafu Bussan—a traveling merchant business that supplied the necessities lost by formerly–displaced families. After establishing a storefront in Little Tokyo, the company was sold to Kiyoshi “Skip” and Aiko “June” Kawaratani, who transformed it into a landmark import business carrying chinaware, dolls, and gift items. 

Carol Tanita, who has managed Rafu Bussan for over 50 years, recalls that the store was a regular haunt in her teenage outings to Little Tokyo. Wanting to save money before pursuing a career in teaching, she took on a part–time job when she was 16. “[The Kawaratanis] were like my second set of parents,” she says, teasingly adding, “And I was a wild child when I was in high school, so they kind of raised me.”

Over time, Tanita’s passion for Japanese culture and craftsmanship led her to commit full–time to the store. For her, places like Rafu Bussan underscore the unique value of brick–and–mortar businesses. Physically seeing and handling imported goods allows you to appreciate their artistry and the journey they’ve taken to reach a final destination.

She also shares her particular affinity for kokeshi—wooden dolls with minimalistic, hand–painted features. All of the dolls share a timeless beauty, but smaller details, such as their cut and color, reveal distinct personalities and pay homage to their origins. Like many of the store’s decorative pieces, the dolls are made by artists as old as 90—a testament to people who believe so much in their tradition that they continue their craft until death. 

However, the fate of Rafu Bussan hinges on Los Angeles's evolving economic landscape. In the last decade, the influx of high–end tenants and the Metro Rail Regional Connector construction project have increased rent rates and forced several small businesses to close. Notably, Suehiro Café, a 51–year–old restaurant, was recently evicted from its long–standing space on First Street due to a rent hike from $6,500 to $10,000 per month. The eviction announcement, which followed the closure of other historic businesses, ignited a mass protest from outraged community members. 

This pattern of business closures highlights the crucial role of community solidarity. Previously, pivotal events like the 1992 Los Angeles riots and the early 2000s Desert Storm protests caused sales to plunge. She emphasizes that during those years, Rafu Bussan and other businesses’ survival hinged on mutual support. “If it wasn't for that sense of community … I don't think Little Tokyo would exist.” 

Following the passing of both Kiyoshi and Aiko, Tanika is grateful to social service organizations that are helping Rafu Bussan continue their work. “We would like to stay here for as long as we can,” she says, citing a need to honor the late Kawaratanis’ legacy of serving the Little Tokyo community. 


For Bill Watanabe, the founder of Little Tokyo Service Center (LTSC), serving and cultivating a sustainable Little Tokyo is a purpose akin to providence. 

Watanabe was born in Manzanar, one of the ten concentration camps that incarcerated Japanese Americans during World War II. His parents, flower farmers from the San Fernando Valley, often brought him to Little Tokyo. He fondly remembers the contrast between the tranquility of the farm and the buzzing streets of Little Tokyo, where he would go and eat chop suey at family banquets. 

“I didn't interact with my parents very much at all. Mainly because of the language barrier,” Watanabe says. Although he attended Japanese school for ten years, he resisted learning and spoke only rudimentary Japanese for much of his childhood. “Of course, I regretted [resisting learning] later,” Watanabe says, “but at the time, I was like, ‘Why do we have to spend another day in school on Saturdays?’”

After he graduated from college with a degree in mechanical engineering, Watanabe spent a year in Tokyo in an effort to better communicate with his parents. Despite initially pursuing a career in engineering, Watanabe experienced a pivotal shift in his path. Seeking a deeper sense of purpose, he earned a master’s degree in social welfare from the University of California, Los Angeles and went on to found the LTSC in 1979.

In the late ‘70s, Little Tokyo was an aging community, with most residents being low–income, non–English–speaking seniors reliant on general relief funds. The primary goal of LTSC was to enhance their quality of life and ensure their well–being, he says. Watanabe, a Christian, adds that transitioning into this meaningful role felt natural, as he felt that his faith guided him toward social work.

“Having a sense that you’re doing what you’re meant to do gives you a tremendous amount of confidence,” he says. “So even when we were challenged with funding and what directions we should take, I felt like, you know, this is going to work out.”  

Although the early days of LTSC mainly focused on providing social services and language capabilities to Nikkei seniors, Watanabe’s team knew that Little Tokyo's proximity to Skid Row and the pressing need for affordable housing would require LTSC to expand its focus. He shares that in the late ‘80s, LTSC was working with tenants in a publicly–owned, dilapidated building and tirelessly advocating for the city to refurbish it for affordable housing. “The city basically said, ‘Why don’t you take over the building, and we’ll give it to you,’” he laughs midway, adding, “‘if you can fix it up yourselves.’” 

From that point on, LTSC began to support a wider audience, evolving into an organization that fosters community development, economic growth, and affordable housing. Reflecting on his 32–year tenure as LTSC’s executive director, Watanabe says that he feels blessed to have witnessed and nurtured the organization's growth before retiring in 2012.

His proudest achievements with LTSC include his work with Casa Heiwa, LTSC’s affordable housing program, and his small business assistance program, which connects bilingual counselors to Japanese business owners. However, the establishment of Terasaki Budokan, a multi–purpose sports center located in Little Tokyo, stands at the top of his list. The gym, named after the late Paul Terasaki, opened in March 2022 but had been in the making since 1994. LTSC examined 25 different sites, demolished two buildings, and even worked through the peak of the pandemic to make the longtime dream come to fruition. 

A gym is generally important to have for the community because it’s a place for kids to play and learn to compete, Watanabe says. However, he considers a gym built in Little Tokyo to be a magnet that attracts young people outside of the area. “If young ethnic kids don't come, then eventually, they're not going to care what happens to Little Tokyo, but if they do … they'll have a heart for Little Tokyo and feel like it's a special place for them,” he says. 

Even though he retired twelve years ago, Watanabe continues to visit Budokan, where he occasionally sees children play basketball, volleyball, and taiko before they explore the cultural center. He compares Budokan to a rising tide that lifts all boats, hoping the next generation—Japanese American or not—will embrace Little Tokyo as part of their cultural heritage. 


Alan Takashi Riley also believes that the youth are paramount to preserving Japanese American culture. Riley is the program coordinator at Kizuna, a nonprofit that educates children and young adults on Japanese American culture through a program pipeline that builds on the skills, knowledge, and networks provided in the previous program. 

Kizuna aims to cultivate a personal connection to Little Tokyo at a young age, beginning with a summer camp program for children as young as second grade. The organization focuses on introducing kids to Japanese cultural identity and heritage. Many of them, including himself, are Yonsei (fourth–generation Japanese Americans) and beyond, which makes their culture seem out of grasp.

Riley explains that this distance from their culture can be attributed to the pressure for Nikkei to assimilate and prove that they were “good Americans” after World War II. Kizuna insists against this separation, instead serving as a conduit for Japanese Americans to learn about Little Tokyo’s 140–year history, find opportunities for community organizing, and serve as mentors for younger generations. 

One of the initiatives that Riley oversees is the Leadership In Action program, which challenges groups of high school students to create projects that address current civil liberties infringements in other communities and parallel them with atrocities in Japanese American internment camps. 

This year, one group wrote, illustrated, and is currently in the process of publishing a children’s book called “A Story of Connection.” The story follows Kenji, a young Japanese American forced into an internment camp but unwilling to let his artistic spirit falter under the hands of the government. Despite mounting pressure to bottle up and sugarcoat the memories of internment, Kenji decides to create paintings of the camps and pin them to the cafeteria walls. The book concludes with, “This is a story that needs to be told. Deserves to be told. Let the conversation begin.” 

Riley’s admiration for the project is apparent. Despite being separated by distance and the business of numerous extracurricular activities, the group still dedicated time to bring it to fruition. In Riley’s view, this experience offered a glimpse into how youth activists will prioritize community engagement in their adulthood. 

Nonprofit endeavors are known for their challenges, which is further complicated by the fact that many Asian Americans are often steered towards careers in the private sector, Riley says. However, the group’s dedication to the eight–week project makes him hopeful for the future, sparking an insightful epiphany: If you care about your community, you’ll find time to do the work. 

Another initiative in Kizuna’s adolescent programs is candid conversations about identity. Riley, who is half Japanese and half Caucasian, mentions that he’s been asked if he is a “real” Japanese person and has been subject to snide, though not necessarily malicious, comments about his ethnicity. His experience with ostracization compels Riley to safeguard the children in Kizuna’s summer camps.

For one reason or another, the Japanese American community is becoming a lot more mixed, Riley says. One would think that this would lend to a more welcoming and inclusive place, but there is still an “us versus them” mentality at times—one that youth are continuing to grapple with. 


Nicole Oshima, a Yonsei/Gosei (fourth/fifth–generation Japanese American) who serves on the editorial committee and as the marketing committee chair at Yo! Magazine, has witnessed this complexity firsthand. She observes that the Nikkei community in Los Angeles represents a subculture that blends Japanese and American traditions. 

Growing up in Little Tokyo allowed Oshima a certain proximity to the Latin American community in Los Angeles. Perhaps it’s because she’s temporally removed from Japan, but Oshima considers connections to her roots to be community–based, rather than culture–based. She explains that she celebrates traditional Japanese celebrations, including Obon festivals or Oshōgatsu, but also eats tamales during New Year’s because her mother’s side of the family is from East Los Angeles. 

This striking representation of a youth Nikkei culture imbued with other cultural influences is realized by Yo! Magazine’s digital, by–youth, for–youth model. The first edition of Yo! launched in 2020 as a Children's Day issue recommending activities to celebrate the holiday while staying safe. Word quickly spread to family and friends, who were asked to contribute articles to the magazine. Since its inception, the Yo! team has brought on a team of recent college graduates, including Oshima, and has started pivoting toward younger audiences.

Oshima says that Yo! doesn’t want to be just another news organization. Recognizing the fundamental work of long–standing news and archival organizations like Rafu Shimpo and Densho, she believes that Yo! can capitalize on its younger team’s knowledge of technology and translate important topics into the digital age. Within the past months, the content team has delved into digestible video formats that give their more traditional blog–style posts a new life and shares them with a different set of people. 

In doing this work, Yo! aspires to loop young people into the process of visualizing the future of Little Tokyo. They recently launched a series in collaboration with 3D animator Akemi Nagashiki, who created a video reimagining a greener Little Tokyo. The video showcases a static shot of First Street, which is typically dominated by concrete, now adorned with benches, hyper–realistic grass, and trees. The project, which is the first in the animation series, is contingent on input from community members. She specifically notes that significant feedback has raised concerns about the water usage of the animated grass—a consideration her team had not initially anticipated but appreciates for sparking valuable dialogue.

Ultimately, Yo! wants to be a platform where current and authentic conversations about the Nikkei experience can blossom. “There's so many different stories depending on where people are from,” Oshima says. “We’re  just scratching the surface right now.” 


Little Tokyo’s struggles with gentrification are familiar among other AAPI spaces. 

Kristin Fukushima, the managing director of Little Tokyo Community Council, explains that the core issue facing most historic ethnic enclaves is the battle for land. Many Asian immigrants settled in areas once deemed “undesirable” and transformed them into thriving neighborhoods, which are now highly attractive to landlords determined to push them out.

She draws a parallel between the ongoing struggle for Little Tokyo’s survival and the devastation wrought by Executive Order 9066, which intentionally dismantled Japanese communities. “I'm not saying that to be facetious,” she says. “The intention was to destroy these communities to prevent any concentration or gathering of people.” For Japanese Americans in particular, WWII serves as a stark warning of the worst possible outcome: the complete erasure of one's community.

Last fall, Fukushima came to Philadelphia to discuss her efforts in maintaining community control over land. During her conversations with local organizers opposing the construction of a 76ers arena near Chinatown, she noted parallels in their struggles and shared histories with Little Tokyo. “But also with that history, I find it's also common to see a long history of people fighting back,” she explains, adding that it’s uncommon for older communities to only now encounter issues; instead, many of these patchwork communities have confronted similar struggles in waves over the past 50 years.

A reminder of the spirit of these communities was the Wishing Tree, which stood at the heart of Little Tokyo’s Japanese Village Plaza for nearly 13 years. The tree was inspired by Japan’s Tanabata, a festival where people of all ages write wishes on tanzaku (colored paper) and tie them to bamboo stalks. At the end of the festivities, the bamboo is sent down a nearby river or set on fire in a temple, which is said to release the wishes and make them come true. Amidst juvenile hopes for new games and reciprocated love, some of the wishes fastened to Little Tokyo’s Wishing Tree expressed a collective dream to save the community and find relief from gentrification. 

“For Mokuyobi to GTFO,” “To save Little Tokyo,” “To find my/our way,” some of the papers read. 

The Wishing Tree’s tanzaku were removed in January after Naoko Ikeda, the proprietor of Blooming Art Gallery, received notice from American Commercial Equities Management Offices that the wishes posed a fire hazard and needed to be taken down. The paper wishes were sent to Higashi Honganji Buddhist Temple on East Third Street. It is unclear if the wishes have been stored or burned in the Tanabata tradition. 

Despite the community's deep disappointment, this event still underscored the ongoing need to honor the cultures and aspirations of these resilient communities. Even at 80 years old, Watanabe continues to lead walking tours through the vibrant streets of Little Tokyo multiple times a week, emphasizing the importance of teaching new generations about the history of the Nikkei community in Southern California. “Historic ethnic neighborhoods are resources that we should not lose and should work to protect,” he says. He doesn’t want people to forget that they were here.  

While the Wishing Tree's loss is felt, the Nikkei community perseveres. The tree is bare, but its dreams, once tethered to bamboo, have been set free and released—the only way for them to be fulfilled. 

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