Behind the scenes of USA airport immigration

Did you ever wonder whats going on behind the scene of immigration when you enter american territory? Here is my personal story and I would wish that people become more aware of this injustice treatment.

I enter the plane. My heart is racing. I sit down and pray to the universe that my dogs will be fine and I will reunite with them in 24 hours. My first stop will be Houston, then further onto LA and Phoenix. What a long journey ahead, but I feel excited. I will finally see my desert parents again. I am longing for their tranquil lifestyle after all the drama, trauma and chaos of the last few months. I lie my head down and crash. I feel so exhausted. My knee is pulsing from the motorcycle accident last night. Still bloody and dirty. My feet are covered with mud. Oh girl, it’s really time to take a break from this crazy jungle adventure.
The bling of the seat belt signs chimes. We are almost there. I can’t wait to feel safe again in the western world. I understand the language of the people and I have good friends. They will take care of me for a little while, until I gain back my strength.
The airship lands. I limp through the gate tunnels into the airport. I am in so much pain, I can hardly stand up. Oh, there are the wheelchair pushers. I ask them for help. The guy asks if I can wait a bit, because they are going on break now. I have my connecting flight in a couple of hours. I don’t want to risk a delay. So, I hobble on.
Damn, where are the toilets? I forgot that I have some weed in my pocket. Wtf no restroom? It’s just a hallway with nothing in it. Alright I need to get rid of this shit ASAP. I throw it in the corner and hope that no cameras see me. Big Brother is always watching around here. I dismissed this from my mind. I remember now, I am actually back in the normal world.
Good, I’m clean. I have nothing to hide. I’m lined up and armed with my passport. I can’t stand up anymore. My wound is seriously troubling me. I sit on my bag, while waiting patiently in line to get through US immigration.
Finally my turn. I walk to the serious looking officer. I answer all his questions honestly. “I am on my way to Phoenix where I will get picked up from my good friends. They will host me during my vacation and cover my return ticket. Afterwards, we will all travel to my parents’ home in Germany… for Christmas.” He asks me, “Why are your feet so dirty?” I replied, “I just moved out of the jungle in Costa Rica. It’s rainy season there right now. I had no time to clean up.” Well, apparently he didn’t like what I said.
Another officer came and he leads me into a waiting room. He orders me to sit down. I was confused. Where was I? What’s happening? Why am I here? I look around. The sign says, “No cell phones allowed.” The other people in the room are very quiet. Nobody is talking. Every now and then, someone goes up to the front desk, or they get brought into one of the rooms attached to the waiting area. I go to the lady at the desk and question her, “Where am I? Why I am here?” She doesn’t answer and tells me to sit down until I get called. I follow her request. After waiting a while in my chair, I get impatient and think, “Who cares what they say… I’m just going to leave.” I really need to catch my flight and they don’t seem to care much.” I walk to the door. An officer stops me and says, “You can’t leave this waiting room.” All of a sudden a hot rush bubbles up inside of me. It feels like claustrophobic anxiety is overwhelming me. What? I cannot be free and go where I want to? In this moment, I finally grasp the seriousness of the situation that I am in. I guess I have to obey for now. I go back to my seat and slide over to ask the neighboring lady where we are. She is a very cool, relaxed French woman who lived many years in Columbia. She is in her mid 30’s. Her travel plan is to go shopping in New York and enjoy herself for a week. She gives me some more clarity about what’s going on. She whispers that the people in here waiting might or might not be able to enter the United States. This completely blows my mind. Never would I have thought to find myself, as a rule abiding German, in a situation to not be able to enter a country... especially, not our good old friend the USA. Utterly confused, I needed some time to digest this. I walk to the bathroom, pondering, “What does this mean? What happens if I can’t enter the United States? What happens with my dogs, with my travel plans, with my dessert parents, my injury, and my finances?” It feels like my whole life is starting to fall apart. All I’m longing for is some peace and this is what I’m getting? I start to panic. Someone from outside of the bathroom is talking to me. I open the door and it’s another uniformed person. She asked me to follow her. She opens the entryway back to the airport hall. I felt relief. I’m out. They are letting me out. Everything is just a big misunderstanding and they have come to their senses. They checked my passport and saw that I am not a criminal. Cool, I can catch my connecting flight now. The woman directs me through the hallway and down the stairs to the baggage claim area. Suddenly, my eyes open wide. I see my suitcase sitting there. She asks me to pick my belongings up and take them back to the waiting room. All my hopeful feelings dissipate in a heartbeat. I ask her, “What happens now?” She says I need to wait until the officials speak to me, and that they will put me on the next flight if I miss mine. I’m telling myself , “Alright, then just stay calm.” My dogs, in cargo, are on a different plane. It will take them 7 hours longer to arrive in Phoenix anyway. All I need to do, is call my friends so they know I’m stuck in immigration.
Back in the secondary inspection area, I take a seat next to the trustworthy French-Columbian woman. We start to share our story. Suddenly, we get interrupted. A forceful voice orders me to shut up and sit back in my seat. What, I am not allowed to talk? They forbid me my freedom of speech? Holy crap, I feel like I’m back in elementary school. Who do they think they are? Why do they have all this power over me? What did I do? I feel angry and disempowered. This is unfair! They treat me like a criminal and a child. Intimidated, I sit back on my seat and wait for a border protection official to invite me into their investigation room.

I end up with a young woman. She had long bleached blonde hair and blue eyes. I’m allowed to make one phone call. I call my desert Mom, Sandy. She can hear that I am in despair. She calms me down. I am scared. I’m crying. I tell her, “The dogs will arrive in Phoenix at midnight, but I’m not sure if I will get to my connection flight on time.” I give my friend the number of the dog transportation company. I tell her, “Please call them and check where my furry kids are, and if they are ok. Those two dogs mean the world to me.” Jette is an 11 year old, Portuguese street dog. I picked her up from in front of my surf camp. She was just a tiny ball of hairy fluff. She looks like a golden Labrador/Sheppard dog mix. Since that time, she has always been my traveling companion through life. We share a huge bond. Jascha, a terrier mix, became her little sister a few years ago. She was neglected and not cared for. The owner let her sleep in the snow and rain. He didn’t feed her. I gave her a safe warm place, and we became a trio. She was the cutest trouble maker that I have ever seen. Jascha turned my whole life upside down. She was a big reason that I left Germany and moved to Costa Rica.
Miss O’Brian starts to ask me all sorts of questions. I have nothing to lie about. So, I answer them as honestly as possible. She seems cold, non-caring, and almost robotic behind her grey desk… in her stiff chair. She instructs me to wait outside to be called again.
She plays the interrogation game with me… for many hours. Answering questions, asking me to wait outside, and then asking me back inside. After the second round, I request a lawyer. I thought, that’s what people in the movies would do at this point. She responds firmly, “You have no rights at this time. That includes no right for legal counsel.” Now, I was really wondering, “Where the heck am I? I have no rights?” What a horrible feeling. They took my freedom. They took my voice. I have to do whatever they say. This is ridiculous. Don’t they have something important to do? Something big to watch out for? I’m just an East German traveler, who lived the last two years in Central America. I want to have a little vacation at my friend’s Sonoran Desert Animal Rescue Center. Then I want to go back home, to Germany, with my dogs. See my parents and get back on my feet. I don’t deserve this.
I spent the entire day with my lovely new acquaintance. I was required to swear with my hand on the Bible that, “I’m telling the truth and nothing but the truth… blab bla bla”. After all of that, Mrs. O’Brian and her crew came to the conclusion to not let me enter the United States of America. Shocker, I’m breaking down in tears. I can’t believe it. I stutter out, “Why?” She replies, “Personally, I would have let you enter, but my team thinks that you are suspect of wanting to live and work in this country.” “Bullshit,” I shout. She says, “They assume that you want to work at the ranch, so that your friends will pay your ticket back to Germany.” “That’s absurd, just because your narrow minds cannot grasp that my friends want to gift me a ticket home? And yes, I will feed some of their animals at the ranch, because I love them and love doing this work… but not in exchange for money. I am not working illegally. These guys are like my parents. I have not violated any of the laws of the United States, in any way. I want to talk to your supervisor.”
A big, fat, black woman enters the small torture room. I love different cultures and backgrounds, but she was just so cliché. She was the unkindest, most uncompassionate, bloody heartless creature I’ve ever met. There was no discussion with her. She just kept repeating, “We will refuse you entry into the United States”. I feel depleted.
They bring me into a separate room and strip search me. Now, they are really starting to treat me like a criminal. A little Asian woman is touching me from head to toe. She grabs my breasts and my genital area. I feel raped. She hammers on my freshly wounded knee. I’m screaming out load. I spin around and snap at her to be careful. It hurts like hell. The Asian slut and her supervisor yell at me to turn back around. “Man, they take their stupid job seriously around here.” She keeps on banging on my wound. I have the same reaction. Now, I’m shouting more forcefully back at them. I’m in anger. I’m in rage. I can’t believe I have to let them do this to me. Finally, they lead me back to my seat. I realize that I have nothing to lose anymore. I can feel some inner power stirring. I speak to the people remaining in the waiting hall, “Why do we let them do this to us? What did you do? Are you a criminal? Do they have any rights to keep us here? Doesn’t the world belong to all of us? We are not bad people. We are just on our journey of life and they cock block us from following our plans.” Of course, they immediately tell me to shut my mouth.
In the end, three men and three women are still remaining to be processed. There was a Latino guy, who has been legal in America, since childhood. He only left America a few days ago, to attend his father’s funeral in Mexico. He has a young son in New York, staying with his nanny, desperately awaiting his father’s return. Then there is an old, super sweet couple from Guatemala. They are probably around eighty years old. They have a son, born and raised in the states, living in Oregon. He just lost his young daughter in an accident. His parents came to support him emotionally in his grieving process. In addition, there was the French lady, myself, and another guy all waiting to hear our fate.
Great job US immigration! You are real American heroes! Protecting this country so diligently! You can be proud of yourselves when you go home to your families each night! You have destroyed countless lives, destinies, futures, travel plans and unions of loved ones. God bless America!
Lastly at 9pm, they brought us outside. They separated us into two different paddy wagons, heading to the Houston detention center. The women were in handcuffs and the men in hand/foot shackles. I panicked shortly, about being handcuffed behind my back. I probably would have freaked out like a mad woman and hyperventilate due to claustrophobia. Thank God, they cuffed my wrists in the front.
They bring us inside the cells. It’s freezing cold there, and just concrete benches. I’m wondering how we will survive the night. I’m in shorts and t-shirt. The grandma in her Guatemalan skirt and a thin blouse. I’m asking the guard for blankets. She replies,” You don’t get blankets.” I lose it, “What? No blankets! You see this old lady here? She has diabetes and she has no medication. She has such thin clothes. You can’t do that. She might die otherwise.” The guard didn’t care. Then our hero from Columbia whispered some sense into her. Wow, she knew how to handle the authorities. She brought us three blankets instantly. The three of us cuddled together like worms on the concrete floor of this cell and hoped for the morning soon to come.
Nowadays, I am thankful for this experience. It opened my eyes to what is actually going on in the world. It convinced me to not trust the authorities. I need to lie, put on a mask and blend in, if I want them to leave me in peace. It sharpened my awareness of how inhumane “so called” humans can be. It gave me the understanding that I am my own authentic person and follow my own rules. This incident took the fear away from me. The fear of breaking the law. You get fucked anyways, so do what you want to do. “These are not the droids you’re looking for”, became one of my best practiced Jedi skills up to this day.

Thanks for reading!