The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I sat on the cold metal bench, still trying to process how I'd ended up here. Just 24 hours earlier, I had been excited about my weekend trip to visit friends in Seattle. Now, I was in an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention facility, my Canadian passport seemingly worthless, and my future uncertain.
My name is Jasmine Mooney, and this is the story of how a routine border crossing turned into a nightmare that changed my understanding of immigration enforcement, administrative detention, and the thin line between freedom and confinement that exists at international borders.
A Routine Border Crossing Gone Wrong
It was a crisp Friday morning in October when I pulled up to the Peace Arch border crossing between British Columbia and Washington State. As a Canadian citizen who had crossed the border dozens of times before, I expected the usual questions: purpose of visit, length of stay, anything to declare. I had all my documentation ready – passport, return ticket information, and the address where I'd be staying.
"What's the purpose of your visit?" the Customs and Border Protection (CBP) officer asked.
"I'm visiting friends in Seattle for the weekend," I replied, handing over my passport.
The officer's demeanor changed subtly as he scanned my information. "Please pull over to secondary inspection," he instructed, pointing to a designated area.
At secondary inspection, officers asked me to unlock my phone. Concerned about privacy but wanting to cooperate, I complied. They scrolled through my messages, emails, and photos. After about an hour, an officer approached me.
"We found some concerning messages. It appears you might be planning to work while in the United States."
My stomach dropped. The "concerning messages" were a casual exchange with my friend about possibly collaborating on her photography project during my visit. I explained that it was just a hobby discussion, not paid work, but the damage was done.
From Denial of Entry to Detention
What happened next occurred with disorienting speed. My entry was denied on grounds of "immigrant intent without proper documentation." I was told I would be returned to Canada, but first, I needed to be processed. This "processing," I would soon learn, meant detention.
"You'll need to come with us," said an officer, leading me to a secure area where my belongings were confiscated, and I was subjected to a pat-down search.
"Is this really necessary?" I asked, my voice shaking. "I'm a Canadian citizen. I can just turn around and go home."
"This is standard procedure," was the only response I received.
Hours later, I found myself being transported in a van with barred windows to the Northwest ICE Processing Center in Tacoma, Washington. My wrists were cuffed, despite having committed no crime.
Inside the Detention Facility
The Northwest ICE Processing Center, a bland concrete structure surrounded by chain-link fences topped with razor wire, would be my home for the next three days. Upon arrival, I surrendered my personal items, underwent a medical screening, and was issued an ID wristband and facility clothing – a baggy orange jumpsuit that would become my unwanted uniform.
I was placed in a women's dormitory with approximately 40 other detainees. The space was institutional and impersonal – bunk beds lined up in rows, communal bathrooms with little privacy, and a common area with metal tables bolted to the floor. The constant noise, harsh lighting, and lack of personal space quickly became overwhelming.
My fellow detainees came from diverse backgrounds: women from Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, and other countries. Some had been detained after living in the U.S. for years; others, like me, had been stopped at ports of entry. Some spoke no English, making their situation even more isolating and confusing.
What struck me most was the normalization of our circumstance. Guards and administrative staff treated our detention as routine, part of an established process that required no explanation or justification. We were not prisoners in the traditional sense, yet our freedom had been completely revoked through administrative rather than judicial means.
The Bureaucratic Limbo
The most distressing aspect of detention was the uncertainty. I was given vague information about when I might be released or returned to Canada. My requests to contact the Canadian consulate were met with delays. When I asked about my rights or the legal basis for my detention, I received perfunctory responses referencing sections of immigration law that meant nothing to me at the time.
"You'll be processed according to procedure," became the standard reply to most of my questions.
I was permitted one free phone call, which I used to contact my parents in Vancouver. They were frantic and immediately began contacting Canadian consular services and a U.S. immigration attorney. Without their external advocacy, I believe my detention would have been significantly longer.
The Human Cost of Administrative Detention
During my three days in detention, I witnessed the human impact of immigration enforcement policies. A woman from El Salvador wept quietly each night, separated from her two children who were staying with relatives in California. A Mexican grandmother worried about missing her medication schedule. A young Thai student, detained after her visa expired, anxiously counted the days until her scheduled hearing.
We existed in a strange parallel reality – not serving criminal sentences, yet subjected to conditions virtually indistinguishable from incarceration. The psychological toll was immense, even for my relatively brief stay.
Sleep was nearly impossible with the constant institutional noises, guards performing counts throughout the night, and the emotional distress that permeated the facility. Meals were served at strictly regimented times, recreation was limited, and privacy was non-existent.
What I found particularly disturbing was how quickly I began to internalize a sense of wrongdoing, despite having committed no crime. The setting, treatment, and procedures all reinforced a subtle message: you are here because you did something wrong. This insidious psychological effect began to take hold even during my short detention.
Legal Limbo and Release
On my third day, I was informed that arrangements had been made for my return to Canada. The Canadian consulate had become involved, and the process was expedited. Before release, I was required to sign several documents, some acknowledging my denied entry and others regarding the conditions of my return.
I was driven to the border in a secured vehicle, still wearing handcuffs. At the Peace Arch crossing, I was formally returned to Canadian authorities, who, to their credit, treated me with dignity and processed my re-entry efficiently.
Back on Canadian soil, I felt a wave of relief so profound it was almost debilitating. The freedom to move, to decide when to eat or sleep, to wear my own clothes – privileges I had taken for granted just days before – now seemed like precious gifts.
The Aftermath and Lessons Learned
In the months following my detention, I experienced symptoms of trauma – anxiety when seeing uniformed officers, panic at the thought of travel, and recurring nightmares about confinement. I sought therapy to address these issues and slowly began to process what had happened.
I also educated myself about immigration law and the complex systems operating at our borders. I learned that administrative detention is a tool used frequently in immigration enforcement, with fewer legal protections than criminal detention. I discovered that border officers have extraordinary discretion and that the threshold for detention is much lower than many citizens realize.
My experience was relatively brief and, as a Canadian citizen with resources and support, I had advantages many detainees lack. Still, it fundamentally changed my understanding of borders, freedom, and the power structures that can transform a person's status in an instant.
Navigating Border Crossings: What I Wish I Had Known
Looking back, there are precautions I wish I had taken:
- Understand that border crossings are legal gray zones where normal rights may be limited
- Be extremely precise about your purpose for travel
- Consider the privacy implications of allowing access to your digital devices
- Have contact information for your country's consular services readily available
- Know your basic rights, even in administrative detention
- Have a contingency plan if something goes wrong
While my situation might seem exceptional, thousands of people experience immigration detention each year. For many, the stay isn't three days but months or even years while cases wind through overburdened immigration courts.
A System in Need of Reform
My detention story raises important questions about the balance between border security and human rights. Is administrative detention without judicial review appropriate in a democratic society? Should the conditions of immigration detention mirror those of criminal incarceration? What standards of treatment should be guaranteed to all people, regardless of citizenship or immigration status?
These questions have no easy answers, but they deserve our attention and thoughtful consideration. Immigration policies reflect our values as a society and have real, profound impacts on human lives.
Moving Forward
Today, I still cross the border to visit the United States, but I do so with meticulous preparation and a heightened awareness of my vulnerability at crossing points. I've become an advocate for detention reform and greater transparency in immigration enforcement.
My experience was just one small window into a vast system that processes thousands of people daily. For most citizens, this system remains invisible until circumstances bring them into direct contact with it. My hope in sharing this story is to make the invisible visible, to humanize a process that can feel coldly bureaucratic and impersonal.
I am not unique. Similar situations have happened to travelers from many countries, including Canadian citizens who assumed their passport provided protection against detention. The border represents not just a geographical division but a complex legal boundary where rules, rights, and expectations shift in ways travelers may not anticipate.
As we navigate an increasingly interconnected world with more global movement than ever before, we need immigration systems that maintain security while preserving human dignity. My three days in detention were brief compared to many, but they were enough to show me how fragile freedom can be and how quickly one's status can change from visitor to detainee.
For anyone crossing international borders, remember this: knowledge, preparation, and awareness of your rights are your best protections. And for citizens who have never experienced detention, I ask you to consider the human beings behind the statistics and policies – people whose lives are profoundly shaped by systems often operating far from public view.
My name is Jasmine Mooney, and this is my ICE detention story. It could happen to anyone.
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