How I ran away to America at 16 but got detained, institutionalised & trapped in the system for months

I dragged my suitcase along a lengthy dark street a little after 5AM. The vicious bark of a dog suddenly filled the air. My heart pounded loudly in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I felt comforted by the wired fence that separated us and I continued ahead. This was it. I’m going. I don’t care. It was September 7th 2009. I was sixteen years old.

Slowly the headscarf I was loosely wearing fell from my head to my shoulders. Indifferent, I let the breeze blow through my long, curly hair; an unfamiliar yet refreshing feeling. Being the black sheep of the family, the scapegoat, the bullied one cast a heaviness in my soul. The all-encompassing ache reverberated through my being. Unresolved trauma manifested in cripplingly low self-esteem. But there I was, no longer giving a fuck. Doing things my own way.

My head was held high. My cheeks lifted, my lips widened for an uncontrollable smile. I was walking away from years of trauma. I was releasing the shackles of control. I deserved to taste freedom even if it was going to be temporary.

A short distance away was a crowded and cluttered three-bedroom house where my family were fast asleep. A house usually full of life, noise, and tension, but it was home. I had lived there my entire life. In the cosy living room laid a handwritten letter on the TV stand. It told my family I was going to stay in a hotel in London for a week with a group of friends. A much needed getaway before starting college education. It reassured them not to worry as I would be safe and keep in touch. And it reminded them that I love them. This would be the first time I would embark on such an experience. London was realistic and in the same country, only a few hours away.

Unbeknown to them, I would in fact be travelling thousands of miles away to another continent. Alone. A plan that began falling into place just hours prior.

My father used to be very protective over our documents. Lockers almost as tall as the ceiling, hoarded thousands of documents. He was the only one who had access to these lockers. Inside were our passports.

“I need my passport as proof of identity for a free bus pass for college,” I stated in Arabic. As time passed, I would feel guilt and shame for lying to my father and to my family. But it was the only way for me to experience freedom. Because the lie worked. And once alone in my room, I sighed in relief, beaming and ready to execute.

As well as my craving for freedom, It was probably what he subconsciously represented that fuelled my desire to fly thousands of miles away. I’ll call him Ben. Ben was Native American with dark brown features and a kind, sensitive soul. We started talking online when I was 14, and he, 15. Hours of online conversation and video calls over the years had given me the solace and affection I always needed. At the time I thought our souls were intertwined. We could not wait to finally embrace each other in person.

Access to the internet was my escape from the emotional isolation that prevailed. The connection we developed online felt real because of the investment I had in the virtual world. Real emotions were involved.

Ben, with his mothers approval, used his fathers savings account to purchase my flight ticket.

$2,225! 12 years later and it still sounds just as much as it did back in 2009. But we both at the time felt it to be worth it. “You cannot put a price tag on love”, our teenage minds rationalised.

This relationship was hidden from my family. The time difference led to sleepless nights but we could not get enough of each other. The three hour coach journey from my hometown to Heathrow airport was filled with anticipation. As I looked meditatively out the window, a warm feeling enveloped and empowered me. Even on little sleep, I was hopeful it would all go to plan.

I came this far. Nothing was going to get in my way. Countless calls from my family and friends were rejected. No one was going to stop me.

The wide open space and bright airport lights overwhelmed my senses. Is it obvious? Lugging around a pink suitcase beside my small 5'1” frame, could they tell I ran away?

Internally, I responded, No one here knows. Everything is going to be okay.

Finally, the announcement echoed the instructions for my flight and I made my way to the terminal. Taking a deep breath, I walked up the steps of the plane.

No one is going to pull me off this plane! Awestruck, it was a miracle. The plane was actually taking off. It gently glided through the runway. Butterflies fluttered furiously in my stomach when it lifted off the ground. My body shook along with the plane’s motions until it levelled out. London’s city lights grew smaller until there was darkness.

I caught fleeting moments of sleep that my body desperately needed throughout the 8 hour flight. My eyes woke up to the night lights of Chicago. Luminous orange dotted around the landscape. Breathtaking, my mind captured the visuals deeply.

Ben and his mother were to drive hours from Wisconsin to meet me at Chicago International O’hare airport. It was the closest airport I could fly to at the time.

The pilot put on the fasten seat belt sign and we began to descend. We landed effortlessly and miraculously, clearing customs was just as effortless.

Oh my god, I’m so close! Collecting my suitcase from baggage reclaim, I wheeled my way through the airport to look out for Ben and his mum.

As I walked ahead, two security officers in uniform approached me. One asked, “Are you Hayat Al-Dunya?”

Timidly I responded, “yes.”

“You are going to have to come with us” they asserted.

“But I’m here to meet some people” I declared, confused.

“We sent them back home. You cannot meet them. Ma’am, please come with us”.

What the..?

I was then taken to an office with multiple officers in uniform present. I was to be interviewed for an agonising three hours.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” A middle-aged, dark-haired white officer asked. His questions became more detailed throughout the interview.

“No, but I can make my own decisions. I may only be 16 but I’m independent for my age,” I advocated.

“You are under 18 and considered a minor. You are here illegally. If you were to have written consent from your parents, it would have been legal” he said, point-blank.

Tears formed in my eyes. How could this be happening? I came all this way!

“Are you afraid to return home?” he asked.

“I know my parents would be really hurt and angry at me and I’m kind of scared. They can be abusive. I don’t want to go home”.

As my experiences were unfolding, back in the UK, an investigation was underway. My parents had called the police when they found the handwritten letter I wrote. The police uncovered that I was not checked in at a hotel in London. I was reported missing. My laptop that contained personal information was confiscated and hacked. They read mine and Ben’s conversations. They knew our plan. But by the time they could stop me from leaving the country, it was too late. I was already halfway across the world.

The interview process was taxing. Incessant tears, a pained and exhausted body. Deep sadness and hopelessness consumed me. Will I ever get to see him? Choked with anxiety, I let myself breakdown.

I was made aware that I was now in the custody of American authorities. I could not leave even if I wanted to. A kind African-American officer supervised me as I had to sleep in the airport overnight. What intensified my discomfort was the fact that it was my time of the month. She handed me pads and sat on-duty outside the box room I was confined in. Because of the stress endured, the heavier flow of my period soaked through the mattress I was laying on. Uncomfortable and riddled with intense emotion, I hardly slept.

The morning saw the arrival of an ICE officer - a young Hispanic woman who was going to escort me to my allocated destination. In a sleep-deprived haze with minimal interaction, I followed her lead.

The first flight took us from Chicago to Detroit, Michigan. It was a bright afternoon, people were rushing around, cafes and stores were serving customers. In the midst of this chaos is when reality sunk in.

Damn. I’m in America.

As she walked me to an officer for a passport check, he asked,

“Does she speak English?”

…“yes, I do”... “yes”, we replied simultaneously.

Because of my ethnicity and the nature of the circumstances, I was assumed to be and treated like an undocumented immigrant.

A pizza place in the airport caught my attention when she asked me if I was hungry or thirsty. A slice of cheese pizza and a bottle of water. It would be my first taste of American food. The man behind the counter repeated my pronunciation of, “water” amused by my British accent.

We would be there for an hour before catching another flight to John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York. The place you hear about on TV and I was going there...?

Once we arrived, we caught a taxi. Taking a deep breath, I captured the window seat views in bewilderment. Sky-scraper buildings, wide open streets and the rush of pedestrians and vehicles. Wow. I’m in a yellow cab driving through the streets of New York.

Shortly, we reached a house in Queens. I was introduced to the manager, Mariana and the assistant manager, Benito. Both Hispanic. Once the handover was complete, the ICE officer left me in their hands.

It was not just a house. It was a large shelter with a school in the basement. “The Children’s Village”. A home for undocumented children under the age of 18 from Latin America. Only two of the children spoke English but their mother tongue, like the rest of the children's, was Spanish. The staff were all bilingual in English and Spanish.

The staff greeted me with a warm presence. They were fascinated by my story and accent. What am I doing here? It was surreal. Almost like a black comedy.

Following protocol, a couple members of staff drove me to a hospital to have blood samples tested and receive injections of medication. Questions about my medical and mental health history were asked.

“When was the last time you hurt yourself or attempted suicide?” They inquired. My response that it was a few months prior stirred concern in the hospital staff.

Months ago, a suicide attempt was met with my mother asking, “Why are you doing this to me?” and a paramedic at the back of an ambulance saying, “this kind of stuff wastes our time.”

Wow. Tragically, as a teenager with a weak sense of self and low self-esteem, such words violently rub salt into an already gaping wound. You internalise such treatment. The lack of emotional validation screams, there is something wrong with you.

Heavy boulders weighed down my shoulders. My pain felt like a burden. I felt like a burden. But years later, I would come to realise that it was the lack of emotional validation and support that intensified the hurt I was already carrying.

My recent struggles meant the hospital staff wanted to keep me there for a few days to analyse my mental health. Some nurses were sweet and others, not so much.

The stark difference of American TV was noticeable in their adverts. Louder and a hell of a lot more dramatic than British TV. As were the shows. The TV in my room was a much needed distraction.

After being discharged a few days later, I returned to the shelter. I shared a room with a girl named Tatiana where we would sleep on bunk-beds. She only spoke Spanish but was learning English. She would turn out to be inauthentic and petty, fortunately leaving a while before I did.

In the office downstairs, I called my mother. Heart-rending wailing pierced my ears when I had confirmed her worst nightmare. Her oldest daughter is in America. Deeply hurt and ashamed, she would keep this a secret from anyone outside of our immediate family, urging my father and siblings to do the same.

There was a routine at the shelter. Early starts and schooling downstairs in the basement. I was introduced to the American schooling system. The textbooks were foreign to me and more basic than what I was used to. As the students were learning English, I was learning Spanish. At times, we helped each other.

A playroom allowed me to express myself creatively where I learnt origami with Pedro, a member of staff who was a friendly giant. None of the children were allowed to go outside unaccompanied so the staff would take us to outings, like playing basketball. At home, we would enjoy a Mexican dish of rice, meat and beans prepared by the staff.

The chores allocated would consume our energy. Some staff would religiously inspect and enforce an intense standard of cleaning. I was also given journals to write in. Much time was spent in solitude, reflecting, reading and writing.

I was immersed in a culture so foreign to me. A culture within a culture. It was new to learn that the Spanish language was everywhere.

TV time centred around Spanish soap operas blaring through the living room. I could not understand a word. And unlike the rest, I had no say in what was watched. Conversations in a language I did not understand surrounded me. Dissociation and disconnection intensified.

Meanwhile, I was allocated an immigration lawyer. All of us at the shelter shared the same one. A kind woman of Puerto Rican descent. She was to build our cases and represent us in court. For a while, our communication was limited to phone calls.

The days would drag. Days turned into weeks. Crushing loneliness enveloped my soul. No one was available to really talk to that spoke the same language as me. Alone in my room, self-destructive thoughts would consume my mind. Feelings so intense, suffocating my being. Secretly inflicting physical pain distracted me from the emotional turmoil.

When staff noticed the inflictions on my arms, they took me to see a psychiatrist. A couple weeks after entering the shelter, I was being transferred to Holliswood hospital, a psychiatric hospital. I was dropped off in the waiting room at 5:30PM but it was not until 11PM that I was finally given a room. Bags were searched. No strings/shoe laces/metal/sharp objects/cell phones/iPods allowed.

The rooms had walls painted a pale grey that looked vaguely metallic. The bedrooms contained two single beds separated by a wooden drawer. Opposite the beds are three doors. Two leading to walk-in closets and the other to a small bathroom. The doors of closets must be locked when not in use. The bathroom doors were always locked, especially at night time as staff were worried patients would drown themselves. Sometimes I forgot it was a psychiatric hospital as it felt more like a detention facility. It did not really help, people actually left there feeling worse. I saw a therapist once, for only 10 minutes during my entire two-week stay there.

The floor had the cheapest of carpet, hard as rock but not as hard as the mattresses. Air conditioning was in every room. Sofia would be my first roommate, her last words to me would be, “say punani to anyone who tries to hurt you!” as the elevator doors closed in front of her. She was discharged just days after my arrival.

The patients assumed I was from London and claimed to have never heard of my hometown. “Harry Potter” was what I seemed to remind some of them of.

Many of them had come from troubled backgrounds. Group home survivors. Runaways. Former addicts. We were all closely monitored with little to no autonomy. Girls and boys segregated into shared rooms with another person of the same gender.

We all lived with routine but with the flexibility of activity choice sometimes. Antidepressants and various pills were administered throughout the day.

Large portions were served at the cafeteria. Food like hamburgers and fries. Processed. Unhealthy. My weight began to climb. I found comfort in food.

The self-consciousness I felt at the time turned into self-loathing. An intense obsession with my body consumed me. I hated how fat I was getting.

Nonetheless, I was immersing myself in this new environment. Being surrounded by English was like music to my ears. TV time had patients come together and hang out in the living room.

Many of us, vulnerable and isolated, began forming secret relationships with each other. Boys sneaking into girls' rooms and vice versa.

When one girl “snitched” on people’s relationships to staff, all hell broke loose. A fight broke out between her and another girl she was especially picking on. Hair pulled. Faces slapped. Blood shed.

As quiet and reserved as I was most times, it soon turned me into a target. One girl in particular assumed the role of the bully. Hostile. Aggressive. Taunting me. Provoking me. Familiar feelings were triggered from my childhood. Violently banging on my door. Switching the light switch outside my room on and off. Leaving toothpaste on my door handle. Spreading lies and rumours about me. My already declining mental health was deteriorating. The hurt and anger turned inwards, against myself. Alone, in a pool of tears, I questioned, Why me? Why can’t I defend myself?

Evident weight gain further fuelled my self-loathing. Sticking my fingers down my throat that night, purging the food I had eaten, gave me a sense of control.

The next day, subject to deafening yelling from this girl, suffocated by her intrusive presence, I snapped. Engulfed in rage with tears streaming down my face, I screamed, “just because I'm quiet, you wanna see what I'm like when I'm angry, well I hope you’re happy now!”

A swarm of patients flooded the scene. Staff attempted to hold me back but I was ready to physically attack her. I did not get my hands on her but at least I tried.

Fast forward to a regularly-held community meeting with other patients, Miss. Keisha asked, “does anybody have a problem with anybody?”

“Yes”, the girl answered. “Hayat”, she added.

That alone blew me over the edge. Full of deep frustration, I stormed out of the room. Within the depths of my lungs came a haunting scream of pain. The laughter and chatter that followed from that room worsened my state. With all my might, I tipped a cart full of hospital gowns and dirty towels to the ground.

Staff tried to calm me down, offering medication. They asked if I wanted to be transferred to another block of the hospital, “3 North.”

I declined. Hearing rumours that some of the girls there were willing to beat me up to ease their boredom and entertain themselves deterred me. This girl got as far as planning to gather a group of girls from another block to attack me.

The previous day, Angela, a staff member, commanded, “stay at the back of the elevator, do as I say…” “put your head down and stay at the back,” she warned.

Full of confusion, I wondered…“But...why?”

“Don’t ask any questions,” she stressed.

I was later informed that some girls in my block were plotting to push me out of the elevator and a bunch of girls in “3 North” would join in attacking me.

Sleepless nights were the norm. Often my mind would be racing with thoughts. Being a light sleeper felt particularly more torturous in this context. The desperate screams and cries of pain from disturbed youth echoed throughout the night. The raspiness of exhausted throats from incessant yelling was clear. Desperate to fall into a deep sleep, it was impossible to block out.

We had access to a phone. I would have calls with my mum. There was no privacy as it was situated in the hall near the front desk, but speaking in Arabic meant no one understood. Hearing her voice soothed my tormented soul. Time allowed reflection. I acknowledged the impact this was having on my family, yet remorse was balanced with self-preservation.

Sneaking phone calls with Ben eased my mood. Though when it was discovered, my phone use was reduced and monitored. The social worker I was appointed prohibited any contact with him.

When people heard my story, especially adults, they would ask, “how do you know he is who he says he is?” irritated, I would respond, “I just know. We’ve had video chats. We love each other”.

However, it was what would unfold that would cause me to question my capacity to commit to a serious relationship. Especially a long-distance one. I had to process and accept that I may not be able to see Ben at all. Already feeling numb, this news did not surprise me. I found comfort in forming bonds with other patients.

Jonathan had long, dark hair and a thin yet toned body. Of Mexican heritage. Intelligent and street smart. His rebelliousness allured me. We would spend most of our free time together. Whenever we had opportunities, we would kiss. Behind chairs in the common room. Behind the piano in the playroom. I had never passionately kissed anyone before in my life. The thrill was electrifying.

Rules were strict. The staff were like vultures. Yet there were people who still managed to sneak into each other's rooms at night.

He gifted me a pair of red converse shoes. Using his own money, he asked his father to bring them in for me. “I can’t let a pretty girl walk around with no shoes,” he smiled.

My spirit was warmed. Previously, I had some possessions that mysteriously disappeared. My feelings grew but only to a certain extent knowing that he would be leaving soon. We didn’t get a proper goodbye. A nurse noticed a hickey on my neck and constantly questioned me about it. The news of the hickey spread like wildfire. I refused to answer questions related to it. Evening came and she physically dragged me out of my room. Her arms wrapped around my waist whilst my legs dangled in the air. I attempted to break free but to no avail. I was made to drink benadryl and tossed into the “Quiet Room” which ironically was often filled with desperate screams.

Forcefully my glasses were removed and my complaints that without them I get headaches were ignored.

Anger fuelled my outbursts as obnoxious laughter and cruel chatter echoed in the background, “shut the fuck up!” I screamed. There I was locked alone in a cold square room with white walls and a black, urine-stained mattress. It reeked. Hysterically, I punched the mattress. Knuckles bleeding. Tears trailing down my cheeks, I was defeated.

At some point, staff barged in, forcing me into a straitjacket, laying me stomach-first onto the mattress. Then they pulled my trousers down and injected a needle into one of my butt cheeks. “Booty juice” patients called it. Allegedly inducing a sedative effect. It stung like hell. I screamed louder.

Looking back, it was inappropriate and abusive conduct but as a teenager in a psychiatric hospital overseas, I was powerless.

Our connection offered temporary fulfilment during a stressful period. I felt his absence. One by one, patients I bonded with began leaving. It was an emotional farewell.

After they left. After he left. I felt more alone, like I didn’t fit in. Who do I hang out with now?

When it was time to leave the hospital, I did not want to return to the shelter knowing I would need to remain there for at least another month. I would rather feel alive with the crazies and misfits than numb and isolated, the language barrier leaving me lost in translation.

I returned to the shelter.

I felt like a ghost. An outsider. Days flew by at the hospital. Days dragged at the shelter. Intense feelings of exclusion resurfaced old feelings. Anxiously awaiting information about my court case, I was in limbo. Conflicted, I had to decide whether I wanted to remain in the U.S. and begin a new life or return to the U.K. A major life decision to make.

As much as the staff at the shelter tried, a lack of distraction, self-expression and social interaction ensued. Isolation suffocated me. I grew to resent Ben for having the privilege of being home with his family whilst I suffered this ordeal. I wanted to return home. I missed my family. A trip to court would reveal that the British Consulate had been resistant in taking responsibility to ensure I return to the UK safely. The judge was concerned that I had run away to a whole other country. Following the hearing, my attorney told me the process would take a few more weeks.

Hearing that was like a slap to the face. I grew resentful towards the UK consulate, if they were so concerned, why were they hesitating in involving themselves? I felt so abandoned. Weeks later, I would be informed that the social worker allocated to my case in the UK would take responsibility to ensure a safe return.

Life at the shelter felt unbearable. Remarks on my weight gain from a staff member stung me to the core. I received an apology and words of affirmations but it was flimsy. Comments need not be made in the first place

Daily, I collected the antidepressants they administered. Seven pills to overdose on. Sneaking scissors into my room also meant the flesh on my arms were cut. An intervention from the shelter followed. A psychiatrist referred me to my second psychiatric hospital. Further court proceedings would be delayed as a result of how my mental state was deemed.

Winchester Medical Centre became my temporary home. It felt cleaner than the previous hospital. Friendlier. More therapeutic. Though not without the troubled bullies, another girl assumed the role but by this point, I was stronger. She was discharged way before I left.

I saw a kind therapist regularly. It unsettled me not knowing if or when I would need to return to the shelter. I did not want to get too comfortable. There were times I would wake up at the shelter wishing I could speak fluent Spanish. On bitter days, I wished the language to be dead because I grew frustrated at hearing a language I didn’t understand. Through experience, I grew more empathy for how non-English speakers must feel.

In early December, I called Ben. I told him my family matters to me and that I miss them, “what about me?”, “you don’t love me anymore” he responded.

“It’s obvious I do, I just didn’t want to say it”, I reassured him. He was distraught and threatened to take his own life. I told him to take a deep breath and reminded him of his worth. I thanked him for saving my life during my low points, affirming that he has a lot to live for and would be missed. This would mark the ending of a relationship that was not meant to be.

I would journal, “I want to know how to breathe for myself”. We thought we could not function without each other, it was unhealthy. I learnt the importance of cultivating self-reliance.

December 10th 2009 was my final court appearance. The waiting area with undocumented children and accompanying staff looked surreal. Watching the cases going by fast felt like I was in a movie.

I thanked my attorney for all her efforts. 4th January 2010 would be the date I would fly home.

I would spend Christmas and new years at the hospital.

Kevin, African-American, in his 40's, was one of my favourite staff members. He really listened. His words spoke to my soul, “never call yourself ugly, look to your mind and soul and find out that you’re a good person worth loving.” He was like the uncle I never had.

John, my favourite male nurse, white and older, shared on my final day, “create your own universe. Don’t live for opinions and what other people say, live for yourself”, such words hit deeper as you get older.

I hugged everyone goodbye and left a thank you note. Bonito arrived to pick me up, Kevin helped us put my suitcase in the boot of his car. The last time I saw Kevin was through his car window as Bonito and I drove back to the shelter. We waved goodbye.

Sharing a final meal with staff and residents and hugging them goodbye was bittersweet. Tears emerged in the eyes of some of the staff as well as my own. $118 was handed to me, a dollar for every day I stayed with the shelter.

I would finally be leaving the country later that night. It all felt like a living dream. Although I was trapped in US custody, isolated and overlooked for months, it was transformative.

I returned more confident. What I endured was one of the most challenging experiences of my life. It was a culture shock. The pain of being a social outcast and bullied deeply stung. I felt lost and out-of-place, it was surreal. I did not allow the experience to define me. Instead, I tapped into my inner wisdom, realised my strength and learnt to accept myself. Perhaps the whole ordeal was worth becoming this version of myself.