In May 2019, I embarked on a journey that began in southern Mexico and took me from Mexico City to the state of Washington, in the United States, eventually completing the trip by crossing from Canada’s west coast to Halifax, on the far eastern edge of the country.
My assignment was to travel atop the freight trains collectively known as La Bestia (“The Beast”)—used by countless migrants seeking to reach the U.S.—and to document the surrounding landscape. This formed part of a broader project I had begun nearly three years earlier, titled The Landscape of the Beast.
After several weeks traveling up the U.S. West Coast, I arrived at the Canadian border in Bellingham, a small coastal town in Washington State. There, I presented my travel documents to a CBP officer. Following what appeared to be a routine check, I was unexpectedly denied entry into Canada due to concerns about my intentions for entering the country.
I was then escorted to a U.S. immigration office, where I was questioned for several hours. Without clear explanation or justification, I was handcuffed and locked in a holding cell. I felt powerless, intimidated, and deeply confused.
Around four hours later, I was woken by two officers who tightened my handcuffs and shackled my legs. My confusion only grew when they continued to withhold any information about why I was being treated in such a degrading and inhumane manner.
I was placed in a Homeland Security van and driven, for about four hours, to a detention center. I didn’t know where I was until I asked an officer directly.
Upon arrival, I was ordered to surrender my civilian clothing and put on a blue prison uniform. My personal information was entered into a prison database. I had been officially detained by ICE—placed in a detention center with no indication of when, or if, I would be released.
During my time at the Northwest Detention Center in Tacoma, Washington, I tried to make sense of my situation by staying creatively active. I connected with fellow detainees—Mexicans, Salvadorans, Hondurans, Guatemalans, and others from across the globe.
I listened to their stories, offered empathy, and documented the reality faced by those trapped in the U.S. immigration system.
Although I had no access to my camera, I found pencils and paper and began sketching and writing about daily life in detention—just as I had done years earlier while incarcerated in the UK.
These portraits are part of a larger series I created during nearly a month behind bars.
My goal was to capture and share the lived experiences of those I met—to include their voices in my ongoing documentation of the journeys taken by thousands of migrants in search of a better life.
In a twist of fate, I was given the chance to tell the story from the inside.
