Telling it like it isn't

Alrighty folks, I know I left you on a cliffhanger last time, so let’s just jump right back in.

(Confused? Go here. Then come back.)

How I Escaped The Slammer

After my initial horror at being told I would be deported to freaking Iceland, I got into Marian-mode. I waited too long to come to England, my boyfriend and I had been through too much. Hell. No. To give you a better idea of what charges were made against me, here’s a list:

• I hadn’t purchased a ticket home and was unsure about the length of my stay. While I knew I wouldn’t be in the UK for more than 6 months, my trip could have been a few weeks or it could have been until November. My “unsureness” was suspicious and the immigration officer was convinced I was lying.
• I had $4 in my wallet, which apparently is proof I have no other funds available. There is no ATM between the airplane and customs, by the way.
• I had no proof of my intention to travel to New Zealand. While I told the officer about my plans to live there, I hadn’t applied for a working visa yet (5 months in advance), which apparently means I am “not acceptable there.” (Her words, not mine.)
• I was unable to provide confirmation of employment. Okay, this is a tricky one. I said I was a freelance consultant, but don’t usually carry pay stubs or Pay Pal receipts with me. My website wasn’t enough, either.

In order to have a fighting chance at being let in, Boyfriend Sam bought me a ticket home (£600, one-way), my parents provided bank statements, family friends (UK citizens) acted as my guarantors, Sam’s parents wrote a letter confirming I would be in New Zealand come December, and the officers did a thorough sweep of my website.

And found this.

Defending my choice of blog topics will be a follow up to this post, so I won’t address it now. That said, I think the immigration officer read the headline, assumed I would never leave the UK and responded to my appeal with a prompt “No.”

Then my mom called. No fancy family friend or guarantor or £600 airplane ticket could do what my mom did in a 20 minute phone call. That woman is a force to be reckoned with, and while I didn’t hear the conversation, I assume she argued that officer into submission. That, or my family and friend’s consistent check-ins annoyed the whole office into releasing me.

Beyond My Story

At 2pm on Friday I was granted freedom. And let me tell you something, it felt damn good.

Except I left behind a group of detainees, all of whom would be deported. Many of whom couldn’t reach their families. A good portion of whom spoke no English whatsoever.

A Nigerian woman who rode next to me in the transport van leaned over every few minutes and ask, “Prison?” “No. Not prison,” I responded. “Detention facility.” She definitely had no idea what I was talking about and no one took the time to explain. The officers and escorts didn’t speak her language, and they operated under the school of thought that speaking louder equals understanding.

Just think about this for a second: You’re traveling to another country and for no reason you can understand you’re taken by uniformed men and locked in a room. No one tells you why and all you hear is shouting. After hours of sitting in this locked room you’re thrown into the back of a van and driven 3 hours in the middle of the damn night to the middle of damn nowhere. Then you’re poked and prodded by a doctor you didn’t authorize to poke and prod you, you’re interrogated more in a language you don’t understand. You’re locked in another room for the night.

Who knows where she is. Who knows what will happen to her. Another woman I was transported with has been in and out of facilities for a week. A WEEK. With no idea why!

Do you know what I’m sick of though? People telling me it would have been worse in the States. You know what? I don’t freaking care. You don’t treat people like that, period. And immigration officers? Don’t punish me for being American. I know our policies suck, but I didn’t make the rules! So stop telling me that I wouldn’t have even gotten a phone call back home, because I’m not home. I’m here. And while the officers were nice(ish), they also treated me like a terrorist.

Where I Go From Here…

I’m writing this from my new bed in the UK and have been granted temporary residence until the 18th of November.  Yes, I realize how incredibly incredibly lucky I am, but I’m also furious and a little traumatized and a lot tired. This blog focuses on stuff not at all related to immigration, but regular posts will be suspended this week so I can air out my drama. Check back tomorrow for the details on how my blog almost got me deported and why I’m still refusing to censor myself.

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The only thing that’s kept me sane for the past few days has been composing this post. I probably should have known the second my mom said, “I hope your flight gets delayed and you get stranded in Iceland,” that my trip was about to go horribly wrong.

God, what an intro. I sound like a YA author: “Hi. My name’s Marian, I’m 12 years old, and this is how the British government ruined my summer.” (Note: I had a layover in Iceland and my mom has always wanted to see the country and was hoping to live vicariously through me. This wasn’t a malicious comment.)

Basically, Boyfriend Sam and I did some research and found that I could stay in the UK for 6 months as long as I wasn’t working or studying. Nowhere did the website say there was a physical visa I needed to obtain, and since I’m broke, I figured I’d be good without one. Strike one, Britain.

Journal Entry – July 8, 2010

As I (hand) write this, I’m being held in Gatwick airport for the second day in a row. At around midnight yesterday I was transferred to a women’s detention facility (Yarl’s Wood – see left) three hours outside London. Meaning I probably got around 2 hours of sleep before being shipped back out to Gatwick.

I use the word “sleep” loosely. My bed consisted of a cot and unwashed sheets and it’s kind of hard to sleep with giant beetles scuttling around the floors. And when I say “shipped” I mean “transported in a bullet proof van with tinted windows and a cage inside.” I’m being deported back to Iceland at 7:30 tonight. It’s been a good 24 hours.

I’ve been treated like a criminal because I didn’t have a ticket back home, so right now I’m waiting for Sam, his lawyer friend, all his roommates, my mother and a family friend to pull some miracle out of their collective ass.

As I write this I realize how privileged I sound. Oooh! My prison didn’t have clean sheets! My daddy’s hot shot friend hasn’t bailed me out yet! Half the people here don’t speak English and at least I have a home to go back to. I shouldn’t whine, but I’m scared. I’ve spent 6 of the last 24 hours in a cage. I’ve been locked in a room for the other 18. An immigration officer read my diary and interrogated my boyfriend. Yeah, it’s been a GREAT day.

Despite being freaked out and tired and hungry and bored, the worst part has been the frustration. It’s obvious the officers here were bullied as kids and get off on making us feel small. Reading my diary? Really? Plus, my reasons for being deported are ridiculous, and every time I ask for more details or information on an appeal or how to apply for a visa I get a different answer. No one seems to know anything, or if they do, their answers all contradict each other.

The airport holding center is stocked with fruit, biscuits and store brand chips. They’ve got a pay phone that doesn’t call out, bathrooms with no locks, hotel pads of paper and those mini pens, one of which I’ve already used up. The news is on in the background and the bookcase is filled with everything from the Bible and paperback romances, to a five-year old guide to Brazil and a few children’s books written in Urdu. I did, however, find a recent issue of Wired, which is like gold in the Big House.

I’ve made two friends – an Australian and a Brazilian – both of whom were detained under suspiciously similar circumstances. I’ve spent most of of the time here bawling, and when Sam was finally able to call I was sobbing so hard my eyes were throbbing. A very tall pregnant Nigerian got me a tissue and said, “You stop crying now.” I think it was meant to be comforting.

The Bigger Picture

There is so much more to this story, but I know how ADD blog readers are, so I’ll stop at 800 words. Check back tomorrow for the ending, but keep in mind that I’m terrified that writing this means immigration officers will barge in and put me back in that damn van (hi guys!). But this isn’t just my story anymore. The past few days have been horrible, but it’s a small part of a much bigger situation. That Nigerian woman didn’t have anyone fighting for her. Being trucked off for 3 hours to the middle of nowhere with no idea what was happening must have been beyond traumatizing. I can’t even imagine what it was like for the children involved.

I was lucky as hell, because one (incredibly nice, handsome, wonderful) officer actually took the time to review my case THREE times and was instrumental in my release. I owe him my sanity, the insane amount of money I would have spent appealing in Iceland, and probably a dozen cupcakes.

Stay tuned…

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