Segregation is seen as a necessary and justifiable punishment for maintaining safety and order in a prison. But as I presided over more than 900 disciplinary hearings in B.C. provincial prisons, it became clear that the practice failed to achieve its purpose. Rather than rehabilitating, it made prisoners worse, creating a revolving door.

Many of the individuals who stood before me carried institutional records as long as their lists of mental health diagnoses. Testimonies of sexual abuse and childhood trauma were all too common. The majority of them, due to historical and ongoing systemic racism, were intergenerational survivors of the Indian Residential School system who had been funnelled into foster care, enduring lifetimes of abuse. 

Every time I sent a prisoner to segregation—“the hole”—confining them for 22 hours or more a day without meaningful human contact, I knew I wasn’t making the prison safer or “teaching a valuable lesson.” I was perpetuating their trauma and worsening their condition. After spending time in isolation, prisoners would return to their range disoriented, depleted, and depressed. They were met with the same problems: heightened animosity and the need to look over their shoulder. It was only a matter of time before a violent incident or a near-fatal overdose led to the same penalty—a vicious cycle that plagued all 10 prisons.

Us versus them

It was difficult to convince prisons that people in custody were deserving of dignity and respect—that hurt people hurt people, and that what they did (if they actually did it) wasn’t necessarily who they were. It was equally difficult to convince prisoners that the officers weren’t “out to get them.” At the same time, the officers suffered from high stress, burnout and PTSD. Facing high turnover and staff shortages, prisons prioritized staff morale by protecting their own, even when they were in the wrong. This further increased division and distrust, creating a mutual “othering” that allowed the system to sustain itself, divided between the keeper and the kept. 

Human-centred discipline

Take the case of Mr. Henry (not his real name). An intergenerational survivor of the Indian Residential School system, he grew up in foster care and had been in and out of custody since he was 12 years old. Years of institutionalization made him what staff called a “frequent flyer.” As far back as he could remember, nobody cared about him. All he had known was a life of abuse and homelessness. He was not seen as a victim; he carried a history of criminal activity, and in this instance, he owed a street debt and was before me for doing someone’s dirty work (though he would never admit it for fear of being labeled a “snitch”). 

Mr. Henry was reluctant to speak to me at first, but as we talked, he began to open up, visibly taken aback that I was asking questions about him, listening, and empathizing. The charging officer mentioned knowing Mr. Henry for years and praised his reputation as a talented artist, a claim supported by the impressive drawings the officer had seen. Toward the end of the hearing, it was clear that Mr. Henry found a sense of calm and satisfaction from drawing. Seeing an opportunity, together with the charging officer, I interpreted the extra duties penalty broadly and assigned him to complete a drawing as a form of accountability. 

The drawing offered by Mr. Henry (not his real name) represents a creative, human-centred approach to discipline, one that aligns with the spirit of Gladue principles.

He walked into that room expecting to be sent back to the hole. Instead, by recognizing his humanity and encouraging an interest he was passionate about, he left with something to feel proud of—a shift that completely changed his attitude. He walked in cold and angry, and walked out a little lighter. 

I never saw him again in my hearing room. 

It was a human-centred approach that brought the spirit of Gladue principles directly into the hearing room—considering context, trauma, and meaningful alternatives to punishment for Indigenous people (R. v. Gladue, [1999] 1 S.C.R. 688). Yet in the disciplinary system across B.C. provincial prisons, Gladue is almost entirely absent. 

Nobody heals alone in a dark box

Under B.C.’s Correction Act Regulation, the extra duties provision was the only sanction I could interpret expansively, one that allowed me to impose positive, productive penalties aligned with rehabilitation and restorative justice. But I was limited in how frequently I could apply it. The prisons viewed the provision as “a slap on the wrist” and labelled me biased in favour of prisoners, revealing a system where attempts at rehabilitation were disregarded as weakness. 

Nobody can heal alone in a dark box. I found that when people in custody were treated as lesser beings and deprived of basic needs, they pushed back against those oppressive forces. But when they were acknowledged for their positive actions and contributions, they felt valued and, in turn, treated others with that same respect. 

To make shifts like Mr. Henry’s the norm rather than the exception, we desperately need to reform the legal framework governing prison discipline. We need regulations that embed Gladue principles into decisions, restrict isolation, mandate penalties that build skills and restore trust, and guarantee adequate, culturally relevant mental health support.

Author’s Note: The cases are drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021–2023). Identifying details have been changed to respect confidentiality and protect privacy.

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this post, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

Support the Cause: Support the rights and dignity of incarcerated individuals by purchasing a tote bag from My Store, where all proceeds go directly to Prisoners’ Legal Services.

Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience—and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.