We tend to assume people are sent to solitary confinement because of what they did — defying guards, exhibiting violent behaviour or posing a serious threat. In B.C.’s provincial jails, the reality is far more bureaucratic: staff hold broad discretion to isolate an individual for 22 or more hours a day with no meaningful human contact. By law, the limit is 15 consecutive days. In practice, staff regularly reset the clock, turning a measure meant as a last resort into the first and only option.  

That reset often ran directly through me. When I presided over disciplinary hearings, I saw how staff used institutional charges to reset the clock, not to manage wrongdoing but to manage bed shortages. When the jail was overcrowded, even a single contact concern became a reason to isolate a prisoner; there was nowhere safe to house them. Others remained there because they refused orders to leave, their mental health so eroded by prolonged isolation that they could no longer cope on a regular living unit. When they refused to move, staff charged them with non-compliance — and the clock reset. 

Specifically, the jail would charge them for failing to comply with direction under s. 21(1)(a) of the Correction Act Regulation. In order for the charge to be substantiated, I had to conclude that a prisoner was given a lawful direction and voluntarily acted in a manner contrary to that direction. So long as the charge was substantiated, my hands were tied. 

Refusing to leave for fear of personal safety looked like this: when Trevor arrived on a regular living unit, he was approached and told he owed money. After he reported the extortion threat, staff moved him to solitary for his safety. But when they later ordered him to move back to Charlie North, a regular range, he refused, citing the same threat. Staff ordered him a second time; he refused again. That refusal triggered an institutional charge for non-compliance. 

During the hearing, Trevor emphasized that he did not feel safe on the unit. The charging officer testified that even outside of prehearing segregation, Trevor was housed on a segregation unit, where he had already spent two weeks and would likely remain there until a suitable alternative became available. Legally, Trevor had disobeyed a direct order, meeting the elements of the offence. But institutional reality dictated the outcome: with nowhere else to place him, finding him guilty was the administrative workaround. The clock reset, and he remained in solitary. 

For others, the threat of further punishment had ceased to mean anything. In one hearing, a correctional officer testified classification had directed him to transfer Brett from segregation on Alpha West to a regular living unit on Bravo East. When the officer gave the direct order to pack up, Brett refused, stating: “Shut the door and leave me alone.” After several attempts to get him to move, the officer warned him that he would be institutionally charged. Brett’s response was indifferent: “Go ahead.” He refused to attend his hearing. Another substantiated charge and another 15-day segregation disposition. 

Kyle’s disciplinary file illustrated how easily the 15-day limit dissolved in practice. A security officer gave direction to Kyle to move from segregation, which he refused. His mental health had deteriorated significantly; with a CGI-C (Clinical Global Impression-Corrections) score of four out of seven — meaning he was moderately ill — he was afraid of acting out, which would put his life in danger on a regular range. About 30 minutes later, a correctional officer spoke to Kyle, and Kyle again refused to move despite warnings that he would be institutionally charged. Classification had determined a safe placement for him and testified that the bed load occupancy in segregation was a serious concern for the jail. Kyle’s institutional client logs read that he had no gang affiliations and only one contact concern, who was not housed on Charlie South. 

When Kyle’s case landed before me, he had already spent 63 days in solitary. Two previous disciplinary hearings had resulted in 15 days of segregation each, with the caveat that if he moved, the penalty would be rescinded. He did not attend his hearing. I found him guilty and imposed the same 15-day penalty with the same caveat, leading to a 78-day isolation period. I was fully aware of how meaningless and harmful the disciplinary hearing system had become. 

So what lands someone in solitary?

It isn’t necessarily violence or a safety threat to the jail. It may be an extortion threat that puts their life in danger, one that staff cannot protect them from. Because there’s nowhere to house them, they’re institutionally charged and then linger week after week, month after month, until their mind gives up on them. 

​B.C.’s provincial jails regularly use solitary confinement to hide an inability to run a safe facility. The ones who suffer are the people we claim to rehabilitate. 

The next time we hear of an incarcerated person who ends up back in the system after release, we must ask ourselves: how much is on them, and how much is on the system responsible for torturing them?

Author’s note: The cases are drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for B.C. 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 column, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

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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.