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Editor’s note: This story contains graphic descriptions of strip searches.

Strip-searching is a routine procedure in the prison system that consists of a visual examination of body cavities, including the ears, nose, mouth, genitals, and rectum. According to the standard operating procedure (SOP) in Georgia, where I’m incarcerated, these searches are often mandatory and allowed for any reason deemed necessary by the facility. A “hands-off” search requires the resident to undress themself and bend to fully expose the required body parts for inspection. As for the “hands-on” search, the act is similar to a violent rape. 

In my 20 years of incarceration, I’ve been strip-searched at least 500 times. I am a queer woman with a severe mental health diagnosis and a long history of trauma—an intersectionality shared by many others behind bars. Early on, I found that in order to endure strip searches, it was necessary for me to detach myself from what was happening to my body. My mind disconnected from my experience as I was instructed to put my unwashed fingers in my mouth, pull my body apart, bend, bounce, and hop. My body went through the motions, but I learned to close my mind’s eye and disassociate from the demands of the strip search—a practice that was useful to get me through the humiliation, but became a detriment to my psychological welfare over time.

In a standard strip search, an incarcerated person is instructed to remove every article of their clothing while the officer watches and inspects the garments. Then the resident must run their fingers through their hair, show the back of their ears, lift their breasts and belly, and put their index fingers in their mouth to sweep across their gums and teeth. If a female resident is menstruating, they are instructed to remove their pad or tampon—regardless of the mess it might make and the fact that there is no opportunity to clean themself or their hands afterward. With their bare feet on a high-traffic floor, the incarcerated person is made to stand with their feet at least 18 inches apart and then squat down as far as possible. 

It is common that the resident is then instructed to cough three “sufficient” coughs, even though this procedure is not detailed in the SOP. If the coughs do not meet the officer’s criteria, they must be repeated louder and harder until the searching officer is satisfied. Then the resident is asked to stand and bend at the waist, using their hands to pull apart their butt cheeks while coughing. In some cases, the resident is instructed to lift their leg by putting one foot on a chair and cough some more. 

This traumatizing procedure aside, many officers often use humiliating, unprofessional language while conducting strip searches, instructing residents to “show the pink,” “make your monkey jump,” or “give me a wink,” while they are in the bent position to encourage a sufficient performance. No protest or resistance is allowed, and if attempted, that protest could be deemed insubordinate, resulting in a discipline report and subsequent sanctions. Studies show that incarcerated women are more likely to be punished for petty infractions than incarcerated men. As a result, our voices are suppressed as our bodies are violated, degraded, and abused by state power.

The sexual violence of strip searches

Strip searches, by definition, should be classified as sexual abuse. During the strip search, a paid employee of the state is equipped with metal restraints and tasked with isolating the incarcerated person and instructing them to expose their vulnerable naked body for inspection. Any resistance could result in segregation from the general population, loss of privileges, or use of force. As a result, strip searches operate with a clear lack of consent and with tools of coercion.

Ironically, all sex acts within the prison are unlawful because an incarcerated person’s limited agency does not allow them to consent. This means that if an incarcerated person willingly engages in any kind of sex act with another incarcerated person or correctional staff member, it violates the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) and can result in punishment for incarcerated people and criminal charges for the staff. 

Strip searches, by definition, should be classified as sexual abuse.

Institutional life is also inherently queer. In most cases, strip searches are conducted by same-sex officers, but strip searches by someone of a different gender are also allowed within policy. Incarcerated people who were assigned female at birth are confined in small spaces for years, often decades or lifetimes. Their sexuality does not end upon entering the carceral system, and over time, gender identity and gender roles become more fluid. When women behind bars maintain intimate, sexual relationships with each other despite the rules and consequences in place to deter them, having a same-sex officer inspect their genitals does not neutralize the harm. 

I had been in same-sex relationships prior to my incarceration and have maintained several serious intimate partnerships with other incarcerated women over the last 20 years. Our bodies are policed and separated by rules against sexual conduct, but we are often forced to submit to strip searches together. Privately, our nakedness is forbidden and punishable. Yet, in the presence of a state employee, we are forced to undress and show our bodies to the staff and often each other. More than once, a searching officer has raised her eyebrow as I undressed in an obvious attempt to show that I was being evaluated and possessed some level of appeal. On one occasion, as my breasts were exposed after removing my bra, the searching officer asked if I was cold or if there was “something else” going on, in an attempt to sexualize the search and with the implication that I was enjoying the assault.

As an adolescent, I experienced a sexual assault that imprinted a perpetual sense of alarm onto my nervous system. It took years to process, but the repeated trauma of strip searches has significantly damaged my healing and recovery. For a person like myself with a traumatic history, strip searches trigger and resurface previous harms, and the continuous need to disassociate has eroded my identity, created a perpetual state of stress and anxiety, and greatly impaired my ability to have healthy relationships outside of my community.

This is the reality for many incarcerated people, a large percentage of whom suffer from extensive traumatic histories and severe mental health diagnoses that are compounded by their arrests and subsequent incarceration. Many factors within the prison system contribute to this harm, such as overcrowding, resource scarcity, unpredictability, and routine inhumane practices such as strip searches. Correctional staff who conduct strip searches can also develop perpetrator-induced trauma or moral injury, which occurs when a person’s role or duties compel them to harm or dehumanize others. As a result, correctional staff also experience high levels of stress and reduced social skills in their professional and private lives.

Inhumane and ineffective

Despite the frequency of strip search procedures, very little contraband is actually recovered. For example, an examination of six months of strip searches in Victoria, Australia, found just seven items of contraband out of 6,200 searches—four of these items were tobacco products, and one was chewing gum. 

I have seen women test the weight capacity of their vaginas to conceal and traffic contraband and elude even the most invasive bend, squat, and cough requirements, bringing with them a vast array of items, including narcotics, glitter, Bluetooth headphones, whitening strips, body jewelry, tobacco products, and tattoo ink. Regardless of the extreme measures used to conduct a visual cavity search, there is no amount of bending or coughing that will dislodge these items or allow an adequate inspection of the inner body.

Additionally, the correctional staff conducting the searches are inconsistent. Though the policies are mandatory, officers who conduct strip searches often fake the search or intentionally shield themselves from the exposed body. It could be favoritism or corruption; it could also be aversion to the body or the procedure itself, especially given its traumatizing effects. 

The manner in which the strip search is conducted is inhumane, not just to the residents who are searched, but also to the officers who perform them. It resorts to a primitive inspection of the body when non-invasive scans could be used as an alternative. SecurPass, a body scan machine that uses X-ray technology to detect contraband hidden on and in the body, is one example of an alternative that already exists in some correctional settings.

Rule 50 of the United Nations’ Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners states that searches should “be conducted in a manner that is respectful to the inherent dignity and privacy of the individual being searched as well as the principle of proportionality, legality, and necessity.” 

The state can uphold the integrity of the prison system largely by its power over the body, including sexuality and even total autonomy. It controls how the body is confined, how it is made to work, and what it is allowed to ingest. After nearly 20 years of incarceration, the complex trauma left by strip searches has ultimately reversed my potential for recovery, impaired my ability to function day to day, and rendered me helpless to sexual assault sanctioned by the state.

In the pretense of rehabilitation of incarcerated people and a humane work environment for its employees, we must move away from the explicit sexual assault of this unethical procedure.

The Right to Write (R2W) project is an editorial initiative where Prism works with incarcerated writers to share their reporting and perspectives across our verticals and coverage areas. Learn more about R2W and how to pitch here.

Editorial Team:
Rikki Li, Lead Editor
Carolyn Copeland, Top Editor
Rashmee Kumar, Copy Editor