The Italian Question and the Migration Story We Forgot to Claim
In the spring of 1940, something quietly ruptured the fabric of everyday Canadian life. Fathers were taken from dinner tables. Shop owners were led away from their storefronts. Men who had spent decades building a life in Canada were suddenly classified as enemy aliens — dangerous not for anything they had done, but for where they had come from.
Nearly 25,000 Canadians of Italian, German, and Japanese origin were arrested and interned during the Second World War. Their stories are part of Canada’s migration history. They are also, in many ways, a story about what happens when a nation decides that some of its members do not fully belong.
On this March 21 — the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination — the Gallery of Human Migration turns to one filmmaker who spent years listening to those stories and sitting with the discomfort they leave behind.
A Filmmaker Who Listens
Sun-Kyung Yi is a Toronto-based documentary filmmaker and scholar whose work sits at the intersection of history, memory, and identity. Her 2012 documentary, The Italian Question, examines one of the least-discussed chapters of Canadian wartime history: the internment of Italian Canadians—a history that is contested, complex, and, for many, still personally raw.
This past year, Sun-Kyung served as one of the jurors for the Gallery of Human Migration’s 2025 Literary Award, bringing to that role the same qualities that define her filmmaking: rigour, openness, and a deep respect for the stories people carry. We were honoured to have her at the table.
We sat down with her to talk about the film, what she learned, and why the questions it raises have never been more relevant.
The Other Side of Belonging
During the Second World War, the Canadian government — responding to fear, political pressure, and wartime uncertainty — turned its gaze on communities it had long welcomed.
Under the War Measures Act, it classified thousands of immigrants and their Canadian-born children as potential threats.
The internment of Japanese-Canadians — over 20,000 people subjected to displacement, loss of property, and forced relocation — is now recognized as one of Canada’s gravest injustices. The federal government issued a formal apology and redress in 1988.But formal recognition, however vital, cannot fully account for what internment leaves behind. In her memoir The Nail That Sticks Out, fourth-generation Japanese-Canadian author Suzanne Hartmann traces the quieter, longer consequences: the scattering of families, the erosion of language across generations, the intricate negotiations of identity that continue long after camps close. As we explored in our piece on Hartmann’s book, migration histories do not end with policy. They live on in families, in memory, in the enduring question of who feels entitled to belong.
The experience of Italian-Canadians occupies a more ambiguous place. Thousands were arrested after Fascist Italy declared war on the Allies in June 1940. Businesses shuttered. Reputations were destroyed. Families fractured. And yet the community’s own reckoning with that history has been — as Sun-Kyung’s film shows — anything but simple.
This is what historians and filmmakers call “The Italian Question.” It is the question of how a community remembers—and whether and how it claims—a painful past.
Before we share our conversation with Sun-Kyung Yi, we invite you to watch the film that started it all — because some stories ask to be seen before they are discussed.
"Listening—carefully and without assumption"
A conversation with Sun-Kyung Yi, director of The Italian Question (2012), and juror of the Gallery of Human Migration Literary Award 2025.
What compelled you to realize this documentary?
I began this project while completing my MA in History at York University, where I was focusing on Canadian immigration history. I was drawn to the story of the internment of Italian-Canadians during World War II because it felt both significant and underrepresented.
While the internment of Japanese-Canadians is more widely recognized in Canada’s historical narrative, the Italian-Canadian experience occupied a more ambiguous space—less visible, and often debated even within the community itself. That tension drew me in. I was interested not only in recovering lesser-known history, but in exploring how communities remember—and disagree about—their own past.
You must have done a lot of research for the film. What did you learn that had a big impact on you?
Research was foundational to this project, especially given how contested this history is. What stayed with me most was not a single discovery, but a growing awareness of how fragile and subjective historical memory can be.
I was struck by how differently people understood the same events — historians, community members, and families often held conflicting interpretations, shaped by personal experience, generational distance, and political perspective.
It reinforced for me that history is not only about what happened, but about how it is remembered, framed, and sometimes disputed. That realization continues to shape how I approach storytelling.
How did you balance narrative with accuracy?
For me, accuracy is the foundation, but narrative is what allows an audience to engage with that truth. In this film, I relied heavily on primary sources and expert voices, particularly historians who had both scholarly and personal connections to the subject.
At the same time, I was conscious not to impose a single, unified narrative. Instead, I allowed space for differing perspectives — even when they contradicted one another. The structure of the film reflects that tension.
Rather than resolving those differences, I saw my role as creating a framework where those voices could coexist, and where the audience could grapple with the complexity for themselves.
What have you learned from making this documentary—and what, if anything, would you do differently?
As a documentary filmmaker, I learned to be comfortable with ambiguity—it is often where the truth resides. Not all stories resolve neatly, and not all communities speak with one voice.
If I were to revisit the film, I might spend more time expanding the range of voices, particularly from those who felt less represented or who were hesitant to speak. With historical subjects, there is always the sense that there are more stories just beyond reach.
That said, the film reflects where I was at that moment — both intellectually and creatively — and I think that is an important part of any work.
Was there anything that surprised you in pulling together these memories and stories?
What surprised me most was the extent of the internal divisions within the community. I had anticipated differing perspectives, but not the depth of feeling around how this history should be interpreted or remembered.
Some participants were deeply committed to recognition and redress, while others were more cautious—even skeptical of how these narratives were being framed publicly.
That tension revealed how history is not only about the past. It is also about identity, politics, and how communities see themselves in the present.
Who do you think will most resonate with this film — and who might be challenged by it?
I think the film will resonate most strongly with those interested in Canadian history, immigration, and questions of memory and identity. Members of the Italian-Canadian community may also find it meaningful — though not always comfortable.
Because the history itself is contested, the film does not take a singular position, and that may be frustrating for some viewers. Those looking for a definitive stance may feel unsatisfied, while others may appreciate the space the film creates for reflection and dialogue.
What do you hope audiences take away?
I hope the film encourages viewers to reflect on how easily fear and uncertainty can shape public policy, and how quickly certain groups can be positioned as ‘other’ — even within a democratic society.
Although the film looks at a specific moment in Canadian history, its themes remain relevant. The responsibility to question, to remember, and to remain vigilant is ongoing.
Is there anything else you’d like to share?
This film emerged from an academic context and allowed me to explore how research and storytelling intersect—and how film can hold complexity in a way that written scholarship sometimes cannot.
It also reinforced a belief that continues to guide my work: that listening—carefully and without assumption—is at the heart of any meaningful documentary.
A Story That Was Always Ours
At the Gallery of Human Migration, we believe that migration is the powerful shared human experience that almost no one believes belongs to them.
The story at the heart of The Italian Question is, on the surface, a very specific one: a particular community, a particular war, a particular government policy. But look closer, and its contours are unmistakable.
It is the story of people who moved—crossing oceans, rebuilding lives—only to find that movement did not guarantee belonging. It is the story of a nation receiving newcomers with one hand and withdrawing welcome with the other. And it is the story of communities who stayed, who endured, who disagreed among themselves about what their suffering even meant.
Those who moved. Those who received. Those who stayed. Migration, in all its forms, touches every one of them.
On the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, we invite you to sit with that complexity. To listen—as Sun-Kyung Yi has taught us—carefully and without assumptions. And to ask yourself, as you watch, as you read, as you remember: