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Kicked
out of the US: 33 hours of hell
Kiwi
journalist Lisa Scott tells of the reality of US border security and
how she and her partner were detained, denied a phone call and
deprived of their passports
10
August, 2015
Jail
time courtesy of Homeland Security was not on journalist Lisa Scott's
radar as she and her partner travelled to the United States. Both of
them had problems securing a visa but those inconveniences were
nothing compared with the reality of US border security. From the
safety of a plane home, Lisa recounts the full story.
Donald
Trump is the front-runner in the Republican race to a candidate,
romping home with oldies, conservatives and evangelists alike,
promising to let others speak during the GOP debates this week.
Jeb
Bush promises not to make another slip like his recent, ''let's not
fund female ailments'' blunder.
Yes,
a very orange man with the world's stupidest comb-over could well be
the next president of the United States. But if you think that's
ridiculous, you ain't heard nothing yet.
Both
myself and my partner had great difficulties trying to get a J-1
visa for his sabbatical.
We
decided to get a quick and easy $14 three-month electronic system
for travel authorisation (ESTA) visa waiver. No worries!
Childishly
excited, dreaming of beer and bicycling around Lake Michigan, we
flew from Frankfurt (upgraded to premium economy, a harbinger of
good times to come, said my partner), finally making it to Chicago
last Monday.
As
we entered the arrivals hall, a loudspeaker broadcast an
announcement about measures to prevent the outbreak of
foot-and-mouth disease.
''Have
you been to a bed and breakfast, near livestock? Please see your
nearest agricultural officer. We appreciate your co-operation.''
''Hello!''
we said with enormous smiles to the heavy-set lady manning passport
control.
''Come
with me,'' she said grimly.
It
was the beginning of two days of hell at the hands of Homeland
Security.
Starting
off a pair of cheerful, carefree Kiwis, we'd be gradually
de-humanised, turned into wee trembling beasties.
By
the time we left, 33 hours later, we were both shaking and
traumatised.
Even
now, I feel like we only just got out alive.
Sounds
ridiculous, I know, but I think it will take me a long time to get
over it.
First,
we were detained, denied a phone call and deprived of our passports.
Next,
hours and hours in the waiting room of the damned: wailing babies,
crying women, men being led off in handcuffs, lots of shouting,
Alsatian-mouthed guards.
The
increased demand for Homeland Security staff meant those normally
pushing a broom were now toting a Glock, and didn't they love
lording it over the PhD students of the world.
Everyone
in the room had come off an international flight, meaning they were
already tired and emotional.
An
air conditioner deliberately set in the minuses exacerbated this:
bones ached, people shivered in summer clothes.
Why
didn't you wait and try harder for your J-1? asked our
interrogators, armed with guns, mace and rubber gloves.
To
begin with, we rolled our eyes, who would think us a threat?
New
Zealanders, babes in the world, harmless.
Surely,
this was some kind of mistake?
Nope.
Applying
for an ESTA after starting with a J-1 was illegal (nice of the US
visa website to let us know) and we were being refused entry.
In
a state of shock for a couple of hours, it just didn't seem possible
that something like this could happen.
Looking
back, I made a few mistakes.
I
should have said yes to the phone call to the New Zealand consulate:
even if they couldn't actually do anything, at least someone would
know where I was.
I
wasn't in America, I wasn't anywhere.
I
had no legal rights: the very act of applying for an ESTA had waived
my right to petition the verdict.
Finger-printed,
our pictures were taken, then we were left to ponder our fate until
midnight, at which point we had been awake for close to 24 hours.
Told
we wouldn't leave until the following evening and that we'd be
spending that night in a jail cell, I started crying and I never
really stopped.
Stupidly,
it didn't occur to me that the economist and I would be separated,
wrenched apart for one of the few times in our 15 years together: he
into the men's cell, me into the ladies' holding pen.
I
wept and wept, worrying that someone was hurting him and he was
doing the same.
I
had been in such a state when they locked me in, he feared for my
sanity.
Have
you ever been in jail?
The
lights stay on all night and there is a lot of noise.
In
my American jail, it was caused by speakers set in the ceiling,
broadcasting that same foot-and-mouth public message every 30
minutes.
''Have
you been to a bed and breakfast, spent time around livestock?''
After
a while it stopped making sense and became a strange garbled poetry.
''Spence
time lipstick.''
Lying
on top of the vinyl-covered mattress, I began to hallucinate.
Shadows
lengthened and changed and I thought I heard the officers outside
laughing about one of their colleague's good-cop routine: no, that
was real.
Time
goes very slowly when you lose your liberty and autonomy.
The
very fact that I couldn't get out of that bare concrete room filled
me with fear.
In
addition I didn't know if the person I loved was safe, or even if I
was: the only thing to see outside the cell window was a poster
advertising a hotline number to report detainee rape or abuse.
Unfortunately,
all our cellphones had been taken off us.
Humiliation,
sleep deprivation and other Guantanamo themes abounded.
Most
of all, though, the isolation: no phones, no email, no idea what was
going on.
Driven
to the plane in a prison truck with mesh windows, we are flying back
to New Zealand in search of a safe place and cuddles, on a wave of
Lufthansa love: whose staff recognise fascism when they see it and
gasped in horror at our tale.
Well
they might, Lufthansa has to pay the fare as the carrier who brought
us to America without recognising us for the reprobates we are.
The
plane's chief officer rubbed my arm: ''What can you expect from that
country?''
Ironic,
as the behaviour we'd been subjected to reminded me of something out
of Germany in 1941.
The
crafting of appealing untruths: It wasn't a jail cell, it was a
comfortable room to lie down in.
''I'm
so sorry'', they said insincerely as they sent people who'd lived in
America for six years back to China to arrange the removal of their
possessions from there. It was the brute rule of law without
compassion.
Which
is why we were so moved to find out later that friends and
colleagues-not-to-be at Northwestern were distraught, and hearing of
our plight, they tried everything, went to the airport to petition
the supervising officer, even called friends in Washington to try to
change her mind.
She
remained intractable.
Just
like the Americans we never got to meet, we detainees were
immeasurably kind to each other, sharing gum, food and tissues.
Hugs
were freely given.
We
were all in this together.
When
those twin towers came down, in its grief and rage America lost some
of its humanity, its decency.
These
weren't good people, shouting and ruining the lives of the poor,
tired huddled masses - although I'm sure in their own minds they
were protecting their country.
From
an economist and a lifestyle columnist, mind.
All
this for something that filling out a form would have fixed.
Terrorising
to fight terrorism, this is how hate is made.
You
have to admit, Osama won.
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