As Peter Matthews photographed the anti-war protest of February 15 surging down O’Connell Street, Toby called from beneath bobbing placards. Surprised to see an apolitical friend spearheading the protest and chanting loudly, he caught up with him a few days later and Toby explained how official American manhandling transformed a party boy into a radical. This, in his own words, is his story.

“We’ve got you Mr. Miller.” They had me in a room with a large two-way mirror and three video cameras focused on the table where I sat facing US immigration agents. I’d arrived in Minneapolis after a flight from Dublin connecting through Amsterdam, en route to a ski holiday in Aspen. There I had arranged to stay with a friend who had moved from Dublin, intending to DJ to upper crust ski bunnies. Needless to say, I was wrecked and anxious to get whatever this was about over with, and move onward to Aspen.

“Could someone here please inform my flight that I’m in the airport and delayed?” I asked.

“Your flight won’t wait for you and anyway you are staying here with us,” I was told.

This looked serious. I had sat in the waiting room, surrounded by agents armed with batons, mace and side arms, wracking my tired brain for what might have caused them to stop me.

Indignant and desperate not to miss my connecting flight to snow, sun and skiing I said, “Like, what the fuck is going on, what do you think you have me on?”

“We’ve got you,” I was told. “You’re caught and there’s no use holding out now. We know everything about you and basically you’re fucked. We know you have been living and working illegally in the USA these past seven years and coming and going illegally.”

“No I have not! You can check my tax records and you’ll see that I’ve been working in Ireland these past seven years. You’ll also see that I attended and graduated from university in Ireland during this time and that I haven’t been back to the USA since my last holiday here seven years ago.”

The snag was they had no record of the green slip you return as you exit the USA. I know I’d handed it in as I left, but they apparently had lost it.

“All right Mr. Miller, we will look into your story.”

With that they left with my passport. 45 minutes later they returned and immediately upped the anti.

“We have seen everywhere you’ve been. We see you’ve travelled around the Middle East through Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Israel and that you’ve been in and out of India.”

“Yes, I was traveling, I like to travel and see different places.”

“We don’t know if that is indeed the case. And you, sir, having signed the entry visa form, have waived all rights under our law. Furthermore, we are now holding you under the anti-terrorism act and as a terrorist suspect you have no rights. We will now search your belongings and your person. Empty your pockets and remove all of your clothing.”

As the video recorded, I stripped. An agent rolled a rubber glove over his hand and searched my mouth and ears. Then he said the words I’d dreaded: “Bend over.”

“You’re not fucking doing that!”

“We can and we will.”

“I want to ring someone! I want my one call! I want to speak to an attorney and get legal advice!”

“Your rights have been waived. You may not have anyone here, you may not inform anyone that you are here, and, if you lie to us, we will charge you with perjury. And if you refuse us in any way we have the right to detain you as we want, without charge.”

I felt utterly helpless. I felt like an absolute nothing, like an animal. I bent over as the agent lubed up, then he stuck his finger in and twiddled it about. By now I was so frightened that if the guy hadn’t had his finger up my ass I think I’d have shit myself.

The interrogation continued and then another agent entered the room.

“We’ve gone through your luggage and found these business cards. We now have your e-mail address and require your password.”

“I’m not telling you that, it’s confidential!”

“You are telling us or we will immediately charge you with perjury and you’ll be spending 10 years in jail and paying a $50,000 fine.”

Possessed of my password, a couple of them went off, returning an hour later.

“Who is this guy you are staying with in Aspen? We see he intends to find you work.”

I explained that I played decks as a pastime and occasionally did a small-scale paid gig. And, yes, my friend had mentioned that maybe he could sort me with a little under-the-table cash if a chance for me to play a private party in Aspen came up. I’d thought, ‘Grand, maybe I can offset some of my holiday costs that way’. The agents didn’t view it that way.

“We have some people in Aspen heading to pick up your friend. We’re going to question him. Who do you think he will sell out? Himself? No, he’ll sell you out, so we suggest you tell us all about him and then perhaps we’ll be lenient with you. We’ve just found out he’s in the USA working illegally, so he has a lot to lose.” (I found out days later that my DJ friend was actually working legally in the US).

Then they changed tack.

“We’ve found another e-mail here from one of your associates in Australia. He asks you, ‘How is it going on the Irish Front? So Mr. Miller, with which paramilitary group are you connected? Who is the Irish Front? What Irish Front is it?”

They seemed very serious, and, I think out of fatigue, I burst out laughing.

“What the hell are you talking about! This is just a colloquialism, we just say that!”

It was now around 11pm and they had interrogated me for almost five hours. Although I asked for food and water they had given me zip.

“We intend to do a further background check on you,” I was now informed.” A van is waiting to conduct you to a penitentiary. As for now, we remain unsure as to whether or not you will be charged with perjury.”

I was then taken for digital fingerprinting. I’d never had my prints taken before. I’d never even been pulled over for speeding. My only prior involvement with police had been as a victim of a crime.

Telling me to change into a boiler suit, they then locked manacles around my wrists and ankles with a chain connecting both pairs. The chain was bolted between my legs as I sat in an icicle cold van on an all-steel bench. Off I went for a 45-minute ride into the frozen Minnesota hinterlands.

As my mug shots were taken at the penitentiary the sheriff agreed, “Hell yeah, they’re some hardcore bastards out at the airport!”

I explained that, at best, I’d be sent back home tomorrow, and if so, I’d have nothing to show for my “holiday in America.” Would the jail have some souvenir I could take home with me?

He laughed. “We’ll can’t say any folks passing through here ever wanted a souvenir of their stay, but I could give you one of the cups you inmates use. It says Carver County Penitentiary.”

My cell was built of reinforced glass and a steel door. For company I had a 6’2’’ 17-stone black man from Carolina. He couldn’t make bail and they’d held him for two months awaiting trial on suspicion of armed robbery and rape.

Having moved well past introductions, he suddenly stated, “Oh, I like you too”. For ten-seconds I repeated, “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” until he clarified, “No, I mean U2 the band”.

Even so I didn’t sleep well that night, with the shitter almost flush against the head of the bunk bed. Around 7am we were let out for breakfast. This was my first food since the flight and when a vicious fight broke out next to me, faces getting smashed and heads being bashed off tables, I just sat trying to eat and imagining my mother, upon hearing my tale of woe, patting my shoulder saying, “How about a turkey sandwich for my little soldier?”.

Around 11am a warden said, “Toby, they’ve come for you”. All the steel jewellery was reapplied and a van took me back to the airport interrogation room.

“We’ve done a background check on your family.” And had they ever. “Ten-years ago your mother was caught trying to enter the United States with a mango in her suitcase.” They also told me about my father and sister’s time working in the US. And the time my brother couldn’t make a flight transfer-connection into and out of the States as he had no visa to the States.

More questions followed searching for details about my family and friends, my presumed paramilitary connections and terrorist activities.

Around 4:30pm my interrogator stated, “Well we’re not going to charge you, we’re just putting you on a plane to Gatwick and you can make your way home from there. Should you ever intend to visit the United States, you may not do so on a holiday visa. And should you apply for a visa expect further inspections. You now have a file with the FBI.”

They told me to change back into my civilian clothing and I was led to the gate in handcuffs. When the flight opened I was led onto it by an agent who after speaking to the crew, seated me, removed the handcuffs and returned my documents. None of the agents apologized for the treatment I’d received at their hands.

Before this happened I respected America. I can’t say I liked the Republican Party and its foreign policy, but I also didn’t give it much thought. I did believe Americans and Irish shared a certain understanding and empathy for one another. We Irish helped build America. The Irish are a cornerstone in the American identity.

I never imagined that Americans would abuse and dehumanize someone like me. When I hear American politicians and media talking about defending and spreading “their” freedom and democracy I am sickened by the hypocrisy. It’s all, “Do as we say, not as we do”.

As for identifying myself, well I’m using a pseudonym. Although I cannot imagine ever wanting to return to the USA, I’m young and I don’t want to completely close this door.

Just call me Toby Miller as that name means a lot to me but nothing to them.