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n fter the van had passed through two more gated check-
SL'vta points, we four detainee passengers were led off the van
j* " and into a processing center lobby,
a a Thankfully, I was finally allowed to use the toilet,
and quite a relief it was after such an anxious, uncertain wait
ing period.
I looked around the lobby, taking in the posters instructing
proper methods of declaring asylum, amnesty rights, etc. No
sooner had I started to familiarize myself with my new sur
roundings, than I was once again patted down and led back
out to the van.
At this point, I was nearing my breaking point. Tired,
fatigued, disoriented, separated from my bandmate, I became a
bit hysterical. Where was I being taken? "Oakington," and that
is basically all the information I was provided.
I had been told I was going to Oxford, but now I was being
taken someplace else? What the fuck was going on?
It was difficult to gauge how long the next van ride was,
probably another hour and a half or two hours. It all seemed
incredible, absolutely incredible. I was being treated like a
prisoner, a dangerous terrorist or something equivalent, all
because my stupid band had booked some shows
in the UK without a work permit?
We stopped at another fenced and gated facil
ity, one that looked considerably larger than the
last stop in Oxford. Once inside it had more of
an institutional feeling; dormitory-style housing
quickly becoming evident.
Upon my release to the security staff at the
Oakington facility, I made a rather alarming spec
tacle of myself by loudly declaring "I'm Nathaniel
Mitchell. I don't know where I am or why I'm
here. I'm from the United States and I don't even
know what part of England I'm in right now."
One of the officers, a female, did her best to
calm me down a little, saying I was in Cambridge
at a detainee center and that there had been sev
eral phonecalls from friends of mine concerning
my arrival.
A fter nearly 16 hours of being kept captive, I
was finally allowed to use a phone and talk
directly to the girls in Manchester.
I spoke to Lowri Evans, who assured me every- g
thing possible was being done by her and the rest S
of Hotpants Romance to get Becky and I released, 5
although it was a terribly bureaucratic process
and time was anything but on our side.
Lowri gave me some phone numbers to try, numbers for
legal aid, numbers that I would be able to call in the morning.
It was a relief to at least be able to talk to one of our
friends on the phone, and the conversation brightened my
mood considerably, especially being assured that folks were
fighting on our behalf and that Becky was aware of my
whereabouts.
After getting off the phone, I was required to check in with
a nurse for a brief medical evaluation, to find out if I had any
pre-existing conditions or was on any sort of medication.
I answered the standard questions I was given; no allergies,
epilepsy, etc. I lingered a bit over the "self-destructive urges"
section, gingerly feeling the lump on my head, but decided
complete honesty would only further complicate matters.
Wrapping up the questionnaire, I confided my situation to
the nurse and asked as to whether a case such as mine was a
common one.
He surprised me with his reply, that in the four years he'd
worked at the Oakington facility, I was the first American he
had ever evaluated for processing.
ollowing the medical questionnaire, I was led by two
guards down an ominous looking hallway, photographed,
frisked thoroughly (the indignity of this was becoming a
dull routine everywhere I went), my small suitcase torn apart
once again, my valuable items cataloged, some items sealed
in brown envelopes, including my passport, Georgia driver's
license, bank cards, birth certificate and some other sundry
items that may have possibly revealed my private banking
information.
I was given a laminated photo ID card that I was to retain
and have available at all times during my stay, as well as an
identification number: 20/3K (pronounced "twenty-three-
kilo").
After being handed the ID card, I was then assigned a
vacuum-sealed blanket, two flat sheets, a pillowcase, and a
white bath towel, as well as a toiletry kit, a plastic mug, a
small packet with teabags, instant coffee, powdered creamers
and sugar.
I was led down another hallway, outside and then into what
would be my dormitory (Block 20), my floor section (3) and my
bed position ("K").
The security officers left me while I was making up my bed
with the sheets and blanket. About a dozen other bodies were
visible in the cots surrounding me, about six against each wall,
each having a wooden wardrobe/locker.
The room was dark, everyone was asleep, and I did my best
to get myself situated as silently as possible. My estimation is
that it was well after 3 a.m. at this point.
I crawled into my cot, grateful to finally be able to lay
down in a dark, quiet room, although anxiety made it difficult
to switch off my whirring mind and succumb to sleep right
away.
Now I was filled with a new resolve, one that was replac
ing the defeatism of a few hours ago. I would be able to make
phonecalls tomorrow, arrange for legal counsel, perhaps a law
yer (or "solicitor" as the British termed it here) and get this
whole awful business straightened out.
P erhaps Becky and I hadn't been terribly direct with the
nature of our visit, but we hadn't done anything illegal.
If anything-, it was ignorance and poor planning that had
exacerbated our situation, but nothing that warranted being
treated as criminals.
It felt like I had only been asleep not but an hour when the
fluorescent lights were flicked on and the security guards were
rousing everyone in the room, declaring that we had a half-
hour for breakfast.
It was 7:30 a.m., and I had much more interest in con
tinuing sleeping than in eating breakfast, but I maae a half
hearted attempt to visit the cafeteria in Block 31, but quickly
returned to my dorm afte. learning that the meals were, in
fact, optional.
I had been told the Immigration Advisory Service personnel
would be clocking in at 9:30 a.m. and decided to doze until
their arrival. It had been recommended to me by my keepers
that the IAS staff would be the best ones to talk to regarding
my situation.
I slept, although fitfully. At 8 a.m. my new room
mates began arriving back from the cafeteria and it
J was quickly clear that I was the only one to whom
English was a first language.
Most of the others were speaking Arabic, I gathered,
although my closest bed-mate seemed to be from Southeastern
Asia. Too distracted by their foreign sounds, I decided to take
a shower.
The washroom was unusual. Three "European"-style toi
lets and one "Arabic"-style, the first I had ever encountered,
where apparently gravity does most of the work when you are
squatting.
The shower took a while to figure out; pushing a button
would produce about 90 seconds of hot water, so soaping and
shampooing would be done with one hand while the other con
tinually pressed the hot water button as it began petering out,
reviving the showerhead to a full-force stream.
Soap, shampoo, shaving razor, toothbrush and toothpaste
were all provided in my toiletry kit, all of which I employed on
my person.
At 9:30 a.m., I met with my block manager, requesting an
audience with an IAS representative. She said
that due to the high volume of detainees (approx
imately 400, I found out), I couldn't expect to
meet with anyone from IAS until about 48 hours
after my arrival.
I informed her that I had a flight back to
America scheduled for 10:30 a.m. tomorrow, to
which she replied that there wasn't much else she
could do.
I told her I desperately needed to make some
phone calls and she told me that phone cards
were available in the shop in the recreation area
next to the cafeteria, also that the shop accepted
American currency.
Waiting in line for the phone card purchase,
there were about 15 people of varying ethnicities
ahead of me (myself being the most obvious vari
ation). I reflected on what life must have been
like for the handful of minorities that attended
my predominantly all-wljite high school in New
Hampshire.
The shop was set up in the far wall of the rec
reation area, a half-dozen or so miniature billiard
tables commanding the attention of the inhabit
ants inside.
I marveled at some of the expert shots made
on equipment that was probably intended for children, how
the command of one's cue could afford respect, no matter the
country of origin.
The shop contained most standard convenience-store items
and a three-pound phone card cost me almost five dollars
American and, having been unable to arrange a meeting with
the on-site IAS representatives, I decided to check in with
Lowri, as to how arranging for a solicitor was progressing.
Unfortunately, it wasn't. The legal aid help line in
Cambridge could produce no one in the office that handled
immigration affairs and tomorrow would be too late.
It was quickly becoming apparent to everyone involved that
this was a matter that could not be easily overturned.
My three-pound phone card seemed like it got used up in
a matter of minutes, even though no money/phone-time ratio
had been provided on the card.
I met again with the block manager, who agreed to help
follow up on my case. It took quite a bit of telephonic
sleuthing, but it was eventually revealed who my denial
caseworker was (we had both been told that person was, inex
plicably, in Luton, although several follow-up calls placed the
caseworker in the more appropriate Manchester).
For the first time, I was able to speak to someone directly
involved in my case, although the news was dismal. Unlike
a prisoner, a detainee was in no way guaranteed the right of
legal counsel, the decision had been made by what appeared
to be legitimate reasons and I would be shipped off on
American Airlines tomorrow morning.
22 FLAGPOLE.COM • DECEMBER 17, 2008