Nobody can heal alone in a dark box

For two years, I served as an external independent decision-maker for BC provincial correctional facilities. I decided if a prisoner was guilty of breaking a rule, and I handed down the penalty. My job was to maintain institutional safety and rehabilitate behaviour. The reality is, it didn’t work. 

The reality of prison hearings

The failure wasn’t due to a lack of structure. The ten prisons where I worked all had the same 28 rules governing prisoner conduct. The most common violations involved possession of contraband (which can include a homemade shank or prison brew) and threatening or assaulting staff or other prisoners. When it was time for their hearing, prisoners were handcuffed and escorted to a small room by one or two guards, depending on the risk classification level. Inside, an officer sat at a desk, tasked with presenting the institution’s case. Behind a raised bench, the adjudicator appeared on a screen presiding over the room virtually as part of COVID-19 protocols. And trapped in the middle stood the prisoner—often shoulder-to-shoulder with the very guard who accused them. The atmosphere in the room was often one of “I gotcha.” 

Of the 892 prisoners whose cases I heard, only 31 (3.48%) had legal representation. Most prisoners were self-represented, unable to retain counsel due to a shortage of legal aid lawyers, or afford private fees. The average prisoner had a seventh-grade education; many struggled to read, and some were illiterate. Though I was tasked with verifying the validity of each guilty plea, few ever tried to challenge the institution’s evidence. Most walked into the room knowing they had already lost, even if they hadn’t committed the violation or had been put up to it—the risk of retaliation from an officer or a “heavy” (a high-level gang member) for not taking the fall simply wasn’t worth it. Spending more time in “the hole” had become their safer, better option.

Before they even reached me, the institution had battered them down by turning the key and walking away

When prisoners were charged after an incident and awaiting their hearings, the institutions most often placed them in the hole—administrative segregation—making release from isolation their primary goal. When asked whether they would like to share their side of the story, many offered the same response: “No, I just want to get this over with.” Before they even reached me, the institution had battered them down by turning the key and walking away. 

Inside “the hole”

Segregation—the hole—meant confinement for 22 hours or more a day without meaningful human contact for up to 15 days, and it was a penalty at my disposal. I understood it was inhumane, and for long periods amounted to torture, yet it was widely condoned and expected. Prison culture equated segregation with justice served. Bound by the law, I had six penalties available to me, none of which addressed the root cause of the prisoners’ behaviour, restored trust on the range, or allowed for forgiveness. While I could issue warnings, restrict programs, impose extra duties (such as cleaning), limit their time out on the range, or forfeit earned remission (effectively extending their sentences), the ultimate punishment was segregation. I faced a revolving door of the most vulnerable prisoners, the ones staff labeled “frequent flyers.”

Before me stood individuals with criminal records as long as their lists of mental health diagnoses, with some of the most prevalent being Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, and Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD). Testimonies of sexual abuse and childhood trauma were all too common. The majority of them were intergenerational survivors of the Indian Residential School system and funneled into the foster care system, surviving a lifetime of violence and child neglect. Segregation wasn’t a lesson of “I will never commit this violation again;” rather, it exacerbated the behaviour the prison was trying to prevent. It made prisoners worse. 

Us vs. them

Every time I sent a prisoner to the hole, I knew I wasn’t making the prison safer. I was perpetuating their trauma. After spending time in isolation, the prisoner would return to their range disoriented, worn down, and unwell. 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 ten institutions. 

Every time I sent a prisoner to the hole, I knew I wasn’t making the prison safer. I was perpetuating their trauma

It was difficult to convince institutions that prisoners were deserving of dignity and respect—that hurt people hurt people, and that what they did (if they did it) wasn’t necessarily who they were. It was equally difficult to convince prisoners that the guards weren’t “out to get them.” At the same time, the guards suffered from high stress, burnout, and PTSD. Facing high turnover, institutions 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. 

A moment of connection

Take the case of Mr. Henry. He is what prison staff call a “frequent flyer,” having become institutionalized after being in and out of the system since he was 12 years old. As far back as he could remember, nobody loved or cared about him; all he had known was a life of abuse and homelessness. He was not 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”). 

He walked in cold and angry, and walked out a little lighter

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 guard mentioned knowing Mr. Henry for years, adding that he had a reputation as a talented artist, a claim supported by the impressive drawings the guard had seen. Toward the end of the hearing, it was clear that Mr. Henry found a sense of calmness and satisfaction from drawing. Seeing an opportunity, I interpreted the extra duties penalty broadly and assigned him to complete a drawing as a form of accountability. 

The individual, a talented artist, offered this drawing. It represents a creative, human-centered approach to discipline, one that aligns with the spirit of Gladue principles.

He had 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. 

Breaking the cycle

The extra duties provision was the only sanction I could interpret expansively, one that allowed me to impose positive, productive penalties aligned with rehabilitation. But I was limited in how frequently I could apply it. The institution viewed the provision as “a slap on the wrist” and labeled 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. To make shifts like Mr. Henry’s the norm rather than the exception, we desperately need a system where penalties build skills, restore trust, and mandate mental health support. I found that when prisoners were acknowledged for their positive actions and contributions, they felt valued and, in turn, treated others with that same respect.

Nobody can heal alone in a dark box

Every person sent to the hole eventually comes back out—to the range, and ultimately, to our communities. When we choose isolation, we aren’t making prisons safer; instead, we are attempting to reintegrate traumatized people into society more broken than when they entered. Only by transforming how discipline is enforced can we begin to change institutional culture.

Author’s Note: Mr. Henry’s name has been changed to respect confidentiality and protect his privacy. However, the case is real, drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021–2023).

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this story, 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.