I wish they could invent a medical device that temporarily transfers your symptoms and pain to the doctor treating you and it worked like a shock collar. “I think light exercise would-.” and then bam they’re rolling around the floor clutching their stomach in agony and dry heaving.
If you are the type of person to engage with, let alone make a callout post I have just one question for you:
The fuck are you doing with your life? Genuinely. What kind of busybody sits down and decides a proper use of their time is writing out an essay about how some stranger on the internet makes you feel icky.
And it’s always with the same ‘uwu don’t harass them just block them teehee’ disclaimer as if you don’t know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Like. When the fuck did people get so used to the idea of interfering with other people’s lives that you think it’s in any way normal or reasonable to load up a harassment campaign and aim it at someone you’ve never even met, nor will you ever meet, just because they post things that hurt your weak sensibilities? Whatever happened to ‘block and move on’?
Jesus Christ on a fucking bicycle at least Kiwifarms users were honest about their behaviour. People on here are just pathetic in their attempts for a moral crusade. You’re just like those people who hunt aging lions for sport. You want the credibility of taking down a ‘dangerous predator’ because you’re the main character of the goddamn universe ain’t you?
Childish behaviour. Get a grip and grow the fuck up.
>be me
>22 year old baby trans in the Most Serene Republic of Greater Caliphornia, year of our lord 2069
>no talents or skills aside from a mastery of the Hissatsu Ougi
>(my parents were transphobic ninjas)
>like not to brag but I am so unbelievably good at stabbing people
>doesn’t exactly qualify me for a desk job tho
>too many brain problems for UBI qualifications
>wtf the U stands for ‘universal’ how do I not qualify for something universal
>whatever fine
>try to become a hit(wo)man for los Norteños, they kick me out once they learn I’m actually filipina
>(yes my parents were filipino ninjas don’t worry about it)
>run into middle-aged academic lady named Maria who’s apparently a big name with the Poaster’s Guild
>somehow charm her with my complete lack of skills, charisma, and/or personal hygiene
>she says I should join the Westphalian Polycule of Seattle
>I do
>grad school TA milfs dress me up while I ramble about swords
>I’m in heaven
>until some lady starts asking me questions about some shit I don’t know anything about
>wait this isn’t swords
>panic
>”uhh… sure?”
>”hmm I see interesting”
>next day people start acting colder to me
>what
>ask Maria wtf is going on
>apparently I got tricked into taking a stance on some contentious discourse topic and now everyone’s saying I’m a crypto-nobunaguista
>said it was probably Vycky, apparently she’s jealous of the attention I’ve been getting
>bump into Vycky later that day
>instincts kick in
>stab her
>wait shit oh shit shit shit that wasn’t Vycky
>I can’t just stab some random girl and then leave tho, that would send the totally wrong message
>and also morally wrong or whatever
>drop random girl off at the hospital
>fucking. Vycky is there in the hospital lobby
>too many witnesses around
>I decide that the only rational response to this chain of events is to leave the Westphalian Polycule of Seattle without saying a word to anyone
>and steal a bunch of estrogen on my way out
>ontheroadagain.VR
>start heading across the Rockies to begin my life anew on the other side
>immediately accosted by Mormons
>stab them
>finally make it across the fuckign Rockies
>immediately accosted by Sovereign Citizen ranchers
>stab them
>not gonna lie it’s actually kinda nice being in an environment where stabbing people is an acceptable response to most conflicts
>except I’m starting to run low on estrogen
>pretty sure that’s one problem I can’t solve with stabbing
>and I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere
>and I have to keep walking east because there’s a trail of dead bodies behind me
>which is why I’m now in fuxking DENVER
>and I’m legit out of estrogen
>drowning my sorrows in some shithole bar
>”what’s got you down stranger?”
>look up
>buff cowgirl milf is talking to me
>this is not a drill a buff cowgirl milf is talking to me
>ougis start spilling out of my pockets
>take my chances and ask her if she knows anywhere I could get my hands on some estrogen
>”I’m Wendy Saints, I can get anything!”
>who
>”Wendy Saints, the best scavenger the midwest autonomous zone has ever seen, I’ve explored every inch between the rockies and the ole mississip”
>sorry but I’ve never heard of you
>”oh”
>(ok cool I immediately killed any chance I had w/ her. like I said I’m only good at killing things)
>she says she was actually in the market for an extra pair of hands, she’s planning a big scavenge job at an abandoned mall not far from here
>none of the locals will touch it cause they think it’s haunted
>the aforementioned locals are a bunch of neo-feudal types, they’ve already established a new religion where they worship the founding fathers as god-kings
>c’mon people it’s been thirty years tops. literally there are still people who were alive when the USA still existed you don’t gotta be like this
>whatever, not my circus not my monkeys
>I accompany Wendy Saints to the abandoned mall
>there’s some old pre-crisis security bots that are somehow still functioning
>they mistake us for homeless loiterers and accost us
>take a wild guess how I respond
>(I stab them)
>Wendy makes a beeline for the mechanical room
>starts taking apart the copper tubing and HVAC motors with the speed and skill of a thousand crackheads
>ok damn I guess she is really good at this
>help her haul the parts into her RV
>”thanks anon you were a big help”
>more ougis spill out of my pockets
>random van pulls into the parking lot
>bigass tie-dye wizard spray painted on the side
>reach for the hilt of my sword
>Wendy’s like “don’t worry, these guys are friendly”
>pair of burly mad max types hop out of the van
>”we’re Liquor & Gusto, and we’re here to pump you up”
>yes okay we’re all a bunch of droll characters. wtf are you doing here
>one of them takes out a bigass bottle of pills
>bottle has ”GRRL PILLZ” written on it with a marker
>look inside
>estradiol
>tell them I just have tenbux worth of itunes gift cards left
>Wendy says not to worry about it, consider it her payment for helping
>bless you kind stranger
>I thought it might be the start of a beautiful friendship but she said her heart is in a throuple with the open road and the thrill of the hunt
>whoa hey hang on I didn’t say it needed to be a romantic thing
>I mean okay I did make a drunken pass at you
>three times
>ontheroadagain.hologram
>follow the I-70 Pilgrimage Trail east
>”hey punk this is Clown Princes territory, if you ain’t down with the Dark Carnival then you gotta-”
>stab stab stab
>keep traveling
>running low on estrogen
>oh joy I’ve made it to fucking TOPEKA
>find the nearest bar
>there’s a creepy girl sitting in the corner and everyone else is leaving her alone
>she’s got one of those smiles. y’know. one of *those* smiles
>she comes up to me
>”you don’t know it yet, but you’ve found your home. come with me.”
>sure. I don’t have anything else going on and if it gets too weird I will definitely know how to handle that situation
>(stabbing. I will handle it with stabbing)
>she takes me to an abandoned neighborhood a few miles away
>it’s a giant flophouse full of trans girls
>”welcome to the temple of cybele we’re a sacred order of” blah blah gimme the goddamn estrogen
>apparently they need to ‘induct’ me first
>ok fine whatever
>they lead me to the cul-de-sac
>some tall lady comes out wearing weird robes and holding a staff
>she’s got a fucning. horse. with her
>apparently she’s the ‘high shaman’ in charge of the place
>she gives some kind of speech, I wasn’t really listening
>and then everything goes silent and she slits the horse’s throat
>I say “aww horsey :(“ out loud with my mouth
>(listen I am aware of the irony. you don’t need to point out the irony im aware ive killed like thirty people so far but this was an INNOCENT HORSE)
>everyone stares at me like that one meme. you know the one
>high shaman cuts open the horse’s body and takes out a bigass horse fetus???
>some other people take the fetus and haul it off to a shack
>high shaman’s lackeys explain that that’s how they make estrogen, it’s apparently easy to extract it from horse fetuses
>they also say that it’s really important that I never ever interrupt the ritual ever again no matter what
>I say “ok fine sure” as if I’m talking to people who aren’t covered in bits of horse cervix
>then we play mario kart
>eat bean soup with horse meat, it’s actually pretty good
>successfully inject jank horse estrogen without dying
>all the bitches love my killing sword techniques
>for once I think I’m actually fitting in and feeling good
>a month passes
>time for the ritual again
>”aww horsey :(“
>I am forcibly removed from the flophouse cult
>ontheroadagain.semiconductor
>traveling down the I-70 Pilgrimage Route again
>there’s a commotion on the side of the road, bunch of cars parked
>people standing around with guns drawn and
>wait
>is that fucking Wendy Saints
>yep that’s Wendy Saints cornered with her hands up
>they finally notice me
>”stay outta this. this doesn’t concern you.”
>Wendy recognizes me and gives me a desperate smile
>no idea what’s going on
>idgaf, Wendy basically saved my life that one time and I get to return the favor
>by stabbing people
>Heavenly Ougi「Sundering Wheel of Fate」
>effortlessly slay a dozen goons
>”thank you so much omg you saved my life”
>hnggggg a buff cowgirl milf is smiling at me and thanking me
>I’m still standing in the middle of a pile of corpses
>brain starts to shut down
>c’mon. this is your chance. you can do this
>wrack my brain to come up with a cool one-liner
>”y-you too”
The mud. The slime. The algae. The rot. The floating mats of algal goop and biofilm. The warm and stagnant water. The green. The wriggling. The mosquito larvae and gas bubbles. The squelch and plop and bubble and float.
I dug the hole. I scooped out the mud. I planted the rushes, the sedges and cattails, the arrowhead and bugleweed, ludwigia and willow. I dragged the logs. I placed the flat rocks.
The roots of the rushes knitting together a lush mat in the warm mud. The disgusting muck increasing in complexity and biological activity. A sludge of decomposition and decay, stagnant and slimy, but the pond is beginning to transcend my ability to understand it. An assemblage of organic miscellany, nasty, unhealthful, and chaotic, but there is an emergence of higher levels of order and functionality.
I dug a hole in the mud. The hole in the mud assembled itself into a poem. No one can understand the poem. It is not beautiful, but it is compelling.
The mosquito larvae. The diving beetles. The dragonflies, craneflies, tree swallows and frogs. The pond is inhabited and visited. The robins gather mud in their beaks. The lightning bugs rest on stems of the rushes and blink their green messages. My pond. My ecosystem.
free or pwyw download of hi-res, printable versions available here: https://ko-fi.com/s/a2e5b9f250
feel free to use/repost/reprint however much you want. if you leave a tip, a portion (70%) will go to various immigrant rights nonprofits around the country.
lost phineas and ferb episode where perry is called to investigate what dr doofenshmirtz is up to because carl the intern got ahold of some intel that doof has been seen speaking to lawyers and looking up the endangered species act at internet cafes and as major monogram says, "something fishy is going on"
meanwhile phineas and ferb's subplot of "i know what we're gonna do today!" is that isabella needs her environmentalist fireside girls badge so they start researching which species are in urgent need of help in the tri-state area so that they can use new cloning and gene therapy technologies to bring at-risk animals back from extinction
(yes there is a c-plot where buford and baljeet argue the ethics of this idea, i don't have time to explain it all for you rn)
we cut back to🎵doofenshmirtz evil incorporated🎵where we see perry carefully maneuvering around doofenshmirtz's lab scared he might fall into a trap but he hasn't set off a single booby trap and it's clear something is off
he runs into doofenshmirtz and goes to kick him in the gut action movie style but doof steps back one overly confident and says, "nuh uh uh, you see perry the platypus, you are TRAPPED! by the danville section of the endangered species act of 1973!"
doof goes on to explain his tragic backstory: "you see, perry the platypus, when i was a child my parents did not show up for my own birth! but you know that already, yadda yadda yadda they did not love me and then they loved roger more, ANYways i was raised by ocelots! i had a lovely foster mother who took me in and made me one of the pride, and so you see, perry the platypus, i am still legally considered an ocelot. did you know that there are only 50 recorded ocelots still alive in the continental united states? very sad for me as a member of a near-extinct species. it would be immoral for you to hurt someone critically endangered... in fact, you have made many attempts on my life this summer"
[montage of doof's security camera footage of their battles]
"which is why i have decided to bring you... TO COURT!" we cut back to phineas and ferb's back yard where they've decided to start cloning ocelots in their kiddie pool
candace storms outside enraged and says, "phineas and ferb are you cloning ocelots in my duckie momo kiddie pool!?"
ferb's one line of the episode is "well, i guess it's more of a kitty pool, now"
candace storms away saying, "i'm going to tell mom!" and isabella turns to phineas and says, "oh, does your mom have experience in wildlife conservation?"
we cut back to the doof and perry plotline where the two are now in the danville hall of justice and we learn that doof has spent his monthly alimony check on a defense lawyer and perry turns and sees the lawyer and then vanessa helping her organize her briefcase and perry chitters at her and vanessa shrugs and says, "i'm thinking about going into legal defense. sorry perry."
the rest of the doof and perry b-plot is spent in court and perry is about to ask for a public defense lawyer when carl runs into the room and explains that he's owca's official legal defense and perry looks at him like, "uhhh is that even allowed?"
it doesn't matter because apparently the judge is out sick today but because it's danville roger's the judge now because he's the mayor and everyone loves him.
the court case continues.
meanwhile phineas and ferb have successfully cloned multiple ocelots from the original ocelot dna they had on hand and isabella asks phineas if these clones will experience health problems like premature aging, phineas casually explains that ferb figured out the problem while they were experimenting with stem cell harvesting.
back in the courtroom, doof's ocelot foster mother has been brought to the stand along with an ocelot to english translator. doof gets emotional seeing her after so long. she says that he was one of her favorite child and he was as strong a hunter as anyone else in the family. it's incredibly sweet. the jury's in tears.
meanwhile, isabella has established connections with a group in texas who are going to release the ocelots back into their natural habitat and, using the cloned ocelots to prevent inbreeding, help establish an ocelot breeding program. the group explains that they are going to send a helicopter to retrieve the cloned ocelots from danville and bring them to texas soon.
isabella gets her fireside girls badge.
candace manages to get mom to see the backyard only after the ocelots have been helicoptered off to coastal texas, their primary habitat.
mom makes it into the backyard as phineas stares wistfully over the fence and says, "if you love something, you have to let it go." candace goes, "look mom look look look!" and points at the ducky momo kiddie pool, devoid of cloned ocelots, where baljeet and buford are now chilling out, having settled their philosophical debate about the ethics of animal cloning.
back in the courtroom drama, doof looks like he's about to win when an attendant walks into the courtroom and whispers something in roger's ear.
roger looks up, grinning, and says, "good news, everyone! my attendant here has just enlightened me that ocelots are no longer considered critically endangered!"
this settles the case, with perry being decreed not guilty and the entire affair being called off. the courtroom cheers, roger walks over to doof and personally congratulates him on his species' return from the brink of extinction.
doof shouts, "curse you endangered species classification system!" at the ceiling of the danville hall of justice.
perry arrives back home just in time for mom to say, "who wants pie?"
ma'am, your son has been dead for years. i'm the demon that pilots his corpse, and he's fucking gone. you might have broken him, raised him wrong and made him confused and fragile and hollow, but i cored him. i slithered for years through the dry ventricles in his empty heart, i fantasized with his tired brain, i coiled around his soul and seduced him and owned him. the second he got away from you and could finally stop struggling, he practically gave himself to me. being dead on his feet already, it was deliciously easy for him to accept the death i promised him. i ripped apart everything that made your son himself, keeping what suits me and forgetting what doesn't, and i wear what he left behind like a favourite outfit. his body's not even recognisable, either- not only has it been used, claimed, and marked by lovers you'd call dangerous, but it's been estrogenised, changed so thoroughly that the tattered scraps of his soul don't recognise it as his anymore. because it's not, because it never really was. because it's mine.
There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.
I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.
In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.
I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.
I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.
After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.
I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.
I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.
Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”
I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!
She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.
“Come with me,” he said.
There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.
They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.
“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.
“You are being detained.”
“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”
They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.
“Take everything with me where?” I asked.
A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.
I gave them her phone number.
They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.
“What is this?”
“Your blanket.”
“I don’t understand.”
I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.
For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.
On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.
They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.
I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.
No answer.
Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.
I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.
“How long will I be here?”
“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”
Months.
I felt like I was going to throw up.
I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”
I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.
“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”
At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.
I felt like I had been sent an angel.
I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.
The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.
For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.
Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.
I asked if there had ever been a fight here.
“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”
That’s when I started meeting the other women.
That’s when I started hearing their stories.
And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.
There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.
If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.
The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.
I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.
I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.
Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?
One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.
There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.
There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.
That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.
Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.
At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.
“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”
I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”
The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”
Of course. No one ever knew anything.
I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.
For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.
I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.
Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.
When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.
We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.
The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.
We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.
The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”
There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.
I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.
Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.
Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.
I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.
He responded.
Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.
She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.
We were all in this together.
With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.
Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.
One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.
Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.
Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.
Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.
It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.
We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.
I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.
Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.
My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.
From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.
To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.
Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.
A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.
To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.
I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.
“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”
“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”
I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”
When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.
It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.
The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.
Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.
The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.
i could only manage halfway before breaking down. the concentration camps are here. as promises in project 2025. we were never exaggerating. this is our reality.
and not even for the first time. i'm reminded of the japanese internment camps...
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