From city to city

A Friday evening in the Montréal winter. The incessant stream of car after car trying to escape the city on “the 40”¹, causing the usual congestion, is a hallmark of Montréal life that you never really get used to. Navigating through leftover snow blackened by cars, these shifting masses hide microbial dynamics and invisible issues that are no less important. Because at the same time, a van leaves Bordeaux prison and merges into the general flow of cars. It’s a small vehicle that seems banal next to the others, on its way to an unknown destination.

The night before, a wave of unrest enveloped Bordeaux prison, flooding the corridors with a contagious dread: tomorrow is “transfer day”. While some know they are on the list of departures, others will find out in only a few moments. ”I’m worried about getting transferred every morning. It’s really stressful. The search, transfers, handcuffs”, Étienne, 51, tells me. Because for many prisoners, it’s become a routine–they are the cogs in a true intercity circuit of prisoners, the result of a relentless pace of transfers between correctional facilities. Catherine, 36, has already been transferred twice in four months of imprisonment, whereas Jérôme, 30, has had nine transfers in fourteen months. François, 51, was transferred about thirty times in 35 total months of incarceration across 5 different facilities.

Were it possible to peer inside the metal carcass escaping the city, we would see four prostrate, handcuffed, freezing and bruised bodies at the back of the vehicle, travelling blindly to a far-off destination - too far-off: their new place of incarceration. The vastness of Québec exacerbates the distances travelled: 278 kilometres separate Bordeaux prison in Montréal and the Orsainville Detention Centre, while you need to travel nearly 580 to reach the new Amos correctional facility in Abitibi from Montréal. From Québec City, you must cross 641 kilometres to reach the northernmost prison, Sept-Iles, and 772 kilometres to arrive at the distant Percé prison, with 46 beds. Heading off at high speed on the “milk run” - an expression evoking a milkman making his rounds, stopping only to deliver his goods and which here takes on a different meaning entirely – the van may drive for up to an entire day.

During these interminable transfers, the proximity of bodies rocking to the rhythm of the bends in the road and overtaking cars makes it impossible to maintain a protective private bubble. Denial of their basic needs makes it unthinkable: ”There are eight of us, tied up, right next to each other, no space to move. And you’re living in other people’s space. Some guys need to piss. I’ve seen that in vans. Because just going to New Carlisle, I think it’s an 11 hour drive. Some people have peed in the van right on the ground, in front of everyone, they didn’t have a choice. Some have even shit their pants, no choice. It’s not super pleasant…” (Étienne, 51, a defendant for 17 months).

Behind the doors of this mobile prison, issues verging on horror, the inhumane, and disrespect for human rights play out. The words of François evoke this nightmarish transport and of the violence it entails: *“A pig on its way to slaughter, the owner of the truck will drive for four hours max. Pigs and cows that are going to the slaughter to be eaten need an hour of rest every four hours. But us, no. We’ll drive for 16 hours without a single hour of rest. And we’re tied up. Not one animal is bound like we are.” (François, 51, 11 months in detention).

While the conditions in which animals are transported to slaughterhouses are increasingly - and rightly - decried and condemned, those of prisoners are the subject of few publications. As if, when these individuals are “between two cities”, they are situated in an invisible liminal space, neither incarcerated nor free.

Humiliation. Shame. Claustrophobia. Fear of the unknown. Privacy violated. Dignity taken. These feelings, emotions, and perceptions are a part of the trip well before it begins and continue after arrival in the new site of detention. Laurent, 36, sums up the transfer situation like this: ”you’re always starting over, starting from scratch”.

Because once the new destination is reached and the handcuffed bodies are unloaded one after another, people inevitably become “new arrivals” once again. In addition to being subjected to humiliating rituals like body searches, this involves creating new relationships, being deprived of material goods, and potential separation from family:

”When I’m asked to be transferred, I find it really hard to be far from my family. Because the only person in my life is my partner. He works six days a week and then I can’t see him when we’re transferred to another prison.” (Catherine, 36, a defendant for 3 months). Laura, 31, explains that she has to wait a week after each transfer to pick up her personal effects. She says that she fears that her deceased father’s gold chains, which hold strong sentimental value, will disappear over the course of her many comings and goings.

Arriving at a new correctional facility also means not having an available cell - whether individual or shared - due to overcrowding and though it is the ultimate private space for prisoners. Some become “campers”, temporarily putting up on mattresses on the ground in a cell or a gym “surpop”: When you arrive, you always sleep on the floor. You’re camping, you sleep with your two feet right next to the toilet bowl, your head underneath the table. It’s always the same thing. Then two days later, you’re in a new wing. Then after that, a day or two later, I go to court and I get transferred again to a different prison.” (Jérôme, 30, a defendant for 14 months).

They may end up with the relative comfort of a cell and their own bed. Rebuild a social network that will help them make their sentences pass faster. Remain defiant in the face of the new distance created between themselves and their families, create new rituals of calls or visits. Until the next “transfer day” which will take them back out on the road, powerless¹ passengers in their own lives.