Vignettes

by liberal japonicus

I assume that people here read like me, so the stuff that I'm reading, y'all are also probably going to see it, if not in the same story, possibly in a different write-up. However, I wonder if any of you read this Guardian piece titled ‘I was a British tourist trying to leave the US. Then I was detained, shackled and sent to an immigration detention centre’

To be honest, I hesitate a bit to click on stories with first person titles, and they seem to be a Guardian staple. Not precisely sure what the reasons are, but it's probably a combination of not wanting to see the suffering up close, not wanting to lose sight of a bigger picture and, again to be totally honest, a dollop of skepticism/cynicism. But I clicked on this one, and beyond the wanton cruelty, it struck me how this is an economic enterprise. Some excerpts with my emphasis:

An hour later, Becky was handed a transcript of her interview to sign. She was alone, with no legal advice. “It was really long, loads of pages.” As she flicked through it, she saw the officer had summarised everything she told him about what she had been doing in the US as just “work in exchange for accommodation”. “I remember thinking, I should ask him to edit that.” But the official was impatient and irritable, she says, and she was exhausted and dizzy – she hadn’t eaten all day. “I just thought, if I sign this, I’ll be free. And I didn’t want to stay there any longer.” So she signed.

Then she was told she had violated her tourist visa by working in the US. They took her fingerprints, seized her phone and bags, cut the laces off her trainers, frisked her, and put her in a cell. “I heard the door lock, and I instantly threw up.”

At 11pm, Becky was allowed to call her family. Her father asked what was going to happen next. “I looked at the officer and he said, ‘We’re going to take you to a facility where you’ll wait for your flight. You’ll be there one or two days – just while we get you on the next flight home.’”

Becky was shackled and put into the back of a van. “I had no idea where we were going. It was just bumping around in darkness with handcuffs on.” At 2.30am, she arrived at the Ice facility in Tacoma, Washington. She was made to change into standard-issue underwear, a yellow top and trousers. Officers took away all her personal belongings, measured her height and weight, made her pose for a mugshot, and assigned her an “A” number (short for “alien”). Whenever she asked the people processing her arrival how long she would be detained for, they told her they couldn’t help: they worked for GEO, the private company contracted to run the facility, and not Ice, the government body that would decide her fate.

[...]

All Becky wanted to do was sleep, but instead she headed to the payphones to make the one free call she had been told she was entitled to, to tell her family how to put money into her inmate account. “In my head, this was a thing I had to do immediately, otherwise I’d be stuck without a way to communicate with the outside world.” She gave her parents her A number, and they tried to reassure her. It’s just one or two days, they repeated to her. A horrible experience. But over soon.

As soon as the call ended, Becky went on one of the detention centre iPads, which had apps allowing inmates to send messages to Ice and check the balance on their inmate account. “I sent a message to Ice straight away saying: ‘I am a tourist. I was just backpacking. I have not outstayed my visa. I’ve only been in America one month and two weeks. I don’t know why I’m here. I want to go home. Please can you help?’” She frantically refreshed the app to see if her account had been credited. (It took longer than expected, because funds can only be transferred into accounts for “illegal aliens” from within the US. Becky’s father, Paul, discovered he could only do it through an American friend.) “I was seeing no money arrive, and I was getting really upset thinking I told them the wrong A number.”

As she sobbed holding the iPad, Becky found herself surrounded by other inmates who wanted to comfort her. A woman called Lucy offered to let Becky use her phone credit if money hadn’t appeared in the account within a few hours. Rosa, a Mexican woman who spoke barely any English and had already been detained for 11 months, offered Becky a Pot Noodle she had been able to buy from the commissary, the shop where they could purchase luxuries. At 8am, Becky finally curled up in her bed to sleep, with Rosa praying in Spanish in the bunk below.

It is hard to avoid the conclusion that the whole edifice is a way to extract money from a particular population.

Comments

[russell]

“I just thought, if I sign this, I’ll be free."

In case it's ever of use to anyone reading this:

Don't sign anything, don't say anything, until and unless you are allowed to speak with a lawyer.

It is hard to avoid the conclusion that the whole edifice is a way to extract money from a particular population.

It's not just one thing or the other, it's both/and. It's a way to terrorize those "other people", and it's a huge profit center.

[CharlesWT]

Here's another example of misadventure at the US border. It even happens to really tough guys.

Even before 9/11, the US Customs Service had a reputation for being one of the world's worst.

Luke Thomas - X

**coachsubotic**
*From Seminar to Cell: My 24 Hours in a U.S. Federal Prison, arrested for too much knowledge in MMA.*

I arrived in America excited, ready to coach my seminar. It was supposed to be a great trip.

Instead, I got stopped at the border.

Immigration pulled me aside and took me into an isolated room. The officer interviewing me looked like he was looking for something wrong. It was obvious why I was in the U.S. I gave them every specific detail about my seminar, my plans, everything.

They kept me in that room for three hours, asking endless questions, I was collaborative.
They told me there was a mistake with my visa and that they were taking me to jail “until they figure out what’s next.” Just like that. No clear explanation, no chance to talk to anyone, no rights. They handcuffed me, put me in a car, and drove me to federal prison.

They stripped me of everything. Took my clothes, gave me jail clothes, fingerprinted me, took photos, searched me. Gave me a blanket and sheet. Then they walked me to my block — 4B.

The moment the door opened, it was chaos.

Fights between gangs. People screaming. Arguing over food, what to watch on TV, crazy people running around. Madness. The guard walked me to cell 221, where there was a filthy mattress with patches of piss and blood.

The guard told me to hurry up so I could get some food. I dropped my stuff and went downstairs. While I was in line, four guys started beating the hell out of another guy, smashing his head into the fence. I wasn’t even hungry. I just grabbed an apple, ate it, and walked straight back to my cell.

When I got back, two Mexican guys were in there, stealing my blanket and sheet.
I said, “Hey bro, what are you doing?”
One of them replied, “Getting my stuff.”
I said, “That’s my stuff.”
And he looked at me and said, “What are you gonna do about it?”
We had a fight. I got my stuff back.

The other one ran out of the cell, screaming, the people in the nearby cells came to watch what was going on. When the guards rushed up, no one said anything. The guard looked at me and said, “You got a good welcome. Keep your head straight, or you’re gonna stay here longer.”

I stepped out of my cell and met a few Romanian guys next door. They warned me, “Be careful. Those guys are part of a gang. They’re going to come for you later.”

I went downstairs. I started looking around. Some people stared at me, some people nodded at me. I didn’t know who was who, so I just sat in a corner, watching and trying to figure things out.
A Venezuelan guy came up and sat with me.
“Hey bro, are you the fighter? You beat up the Mexican?”
I nodded to him.
He told me, “They didn’t see your ears? You don’t mess with a guy with ears like that, they do that to every new guy. They try to intimidate you and take your shit.”
He said, “There’s another fighter here, Samoan. You should meet him.”

The Mexicans I’d just fought kept watching me from upstairs. I knew it wasn’t over.

Then the Venezuelan guy asked me, “Are you Christian?”

I said, “Yes.”
He replied, “At 8:30pm we pray in the basketball court. Join us.”

Later, one of the gang leaders approached me.
“Hey fighter, what’s your name?”
“Renato.”
He nodded. “They told me you’re Christian. You’re joining us for prayer?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus always has His way of putting people together.”

Soon after, I went to the yard where people were training. The Samoan fighter nodded at me and said, “Are you the fighter?”
I said, “I was. Now I’m a coach.”
He looked at me. “I know you. I’ve watched your videos. I can’t believe you’re here.”
I replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

More people started approaching me, asking the same thing: “Why are you here? How long are you staying?”

I noticed the phones downstairs, so I asked some of the inmates:
“How can I call my family to tell them what’s going on?”
They told me:
“You can’t. You have to wait three days to get your number.”

[Tony P.]

I can't help but wonder about the psychology of the front-line minions of would-be dictators.

Those masked "plain-clothes" ICE(?) agents(?) who snatched the Tufts grad student off the street, for instance: fascists themselves? mindless automatons just following orders? working stiffs afraid of losing their jobs if they behaved like human beings?

Is there a way for decent Americans to make it easier, or at least possible, for the low-level, front-line implementers of fascist dictates to rebel?

--TP