In the end, the only Japanese American spies that existed didn’t spy for Japan. They spied for America.
April 22, 1941: Arthur Komori was sent to the Philippines to spy on Japan.
In the spring of 1941, Arthur Satoshi Komori, a young Nisei (second-generation Japanese American) from Hawaii, was secretly enlisted by the U.S. Army and sent to the Philippines — months before the attack on Pearl Harbor. His mission: spy on the Japanese.
It was a quiet beginning to a story that would grow louder with irony as the war unfolded.
Komori was one of the very first Japanese American recruits in what would become the Military Intelligence Service (MIS) — a top-secret unit that trained bilingual Niseis to translate documents, interrogate prisoners, and gather military intelligence in the Pacific Theater. His knowledge of the Japanese language and culture made him an ideal candidate. But his face made him a target.
He was deployed alongside fellow Nisei recruit Richard Sakakida. Both men posed as civilians in Manila, gathering intel on Japanese ship movements and operations in the tense months leading up to war. They lived under constant threat: if captured by Japanese forces, they would be executed as traitors. If discovered by Americans, they might be mistaken for the enemy. Trust, from either side, was a fragile thing.
Then came December 7, 1941.
Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, and within hours, launched an invasion of the Philippines. Komori’s covert work was now deep behind enemy lines. He was eventually captured by Japanese forces, but he continued his work in secret, pretending to be a civilian. Even after being released, he faced suspicion from American troops who couldn’t look past his face.
He interrogated captured Japanese soldiers. He combed through documents recovered from the battlefield. He risked his life for a country that had already decided his people might be traitors.
Back home, 120,000 Japanese Americans — two-thirds of them U.S. citizens — were forcibly removed from their homes and incarcerated by their own government under the suspicion of disloyalty. Entire families were locked away in barbed-wire camps.
The accusation? Potential espionage.
But in the end, the only Japanese American spies who existed weren’t spying for Japan. They were spying for America.
As Komori later wrote: “They said we looked like the enemy. But I knew which side I was on.”
My uncle was Richard Sakakida. My other uncle Wayne Kiyosaki wrote his biography. My uncle Dick was labeled a spy by some, but his heroic acts prove that he was far from one.
Richard Sakakida’s story is extraordinary. We would love to learn more about your family’s perspective if you’re ever open to sharing.