‘Crimmigrant other’ narratives fail to capture diversity among immigration detainees: the case of Hong Kong 

Guest post by Wing Yin Anna Tsui. Anna holds an MPhil in Sociology from the University of Hong Kong. She is an incoming DPhil student in Criminology at the University of Oxford for 2025-26. Her research focuses on immigration detention and deportation in East Asia. 

Immigration detention often operates like a black box, but recent reports from East Asia—showing detainees bio-tracked, mistreated and hog-tied — shed light on harsh realities inside. Awareness and support for detainees in Hong Kong have increased in recent years due to pioneering research and civil society initiatives. However, detention continues at alarming rates; in 2022, 10-23% of detainees in Hong Kong's largest facility were held for over six months. This figure decreased to 5-10% in 2023, but it remains concerning. During my visits over the past five years, many individuals I encountered had been held for over one to two years, making such lengthy detentions seem normalised. 

Immigration detention profoundly impacts the 15,000 asylum seekers in the city, a demographic that constitutes the majority of long-term detainees. Although Hong Kong is not a signatory to the Refugee Convention, it has established policies to prevent the return of individuals at risk of torture, inhumane treatment or persecution to their countries of origin. However, asylum seekers can only file claims when facing removal, allowing the government to label them as ‘illegal immigrants’ - a term suggesting guilt - and granting broad discretion on their detention or release under bail-like conditions. 

Recognised refugees are eligible for permanent resettlement in third countries, mainly Canada and the US, but only 1% of asylum claims have been accepted. Critics attribute this extremely low acceptance rate to poor screening quality and lack of procedural fairness. Asylum-seeking detainees often give up their right to appeal, due to the prospect of prolonged detention and diminished capacity to engage in these legal processes. 

As a regular visitor, the power of segregation within immigration detention continues to haunt me: why does immigration detention exist in such obscurity? How do individuals end up detained? Are they prepared for potential removal? In my MPhil thesis, I sought to answer these questions through interviews with 18 former detainees (90% of whom were seeking asylum when detained), 8 civil society organisation (CSO) members and extensive documentary research. 

My research found that the government and mainstream media portrayed asylum seekers as the crimmigrant other. This narrative, which labels asylum seekers as criminogenic ‘fake refugees’ and compares them to ‘poisonous tumours’, reinforces the perception that they are dangerous and deserving of confinement and expulsion. While previous research has focused on the political construction of crimmigrant typologies, I am interested in immigration detainees' lived experiences of being treated as the crimmigrant other. I want to explore how their pathways to illegality shape their notions of autonomy and decisions regarding removal. 

Three takeaways: becoming (in)visible, illegal and deportable 

There are three main takeaways from my research. First, the plight of immigration detainees gained visibility only when their narratives of victimhood crossed social realms. From 2005 to 2015, strategic litigations on unlawful detention documented the harms of detention, but these issues were often lost in translation due to their technical nature, leaving them unrecognised by the public. In contrast, between 2019 to 2020, detainees' personal stories gained prominence through collective actions against arbitrary detention, highlighting their victimhood and differentiating them from negative stereotypes.  

However, the government reacted strongly. Since 2021, it has used its legislative power to reclaim control over these narratives, framing collective actions as evidence of detainees' deviance. This justification led to the establishment of a new detention centre, the Tai Tam Gap Correctional Institution, equipped with experimental ‘Smart Prison’ technologies like smart wristbands and real-time analytics, alongside legal amendments to prolong detention and discipline uncooperative detainees. Nevertheless, public narratives surrounding detainees had changed due to prior contestation. Today, resistance to unlawful detention continues to resurface in courts and media. 

Secondly, in contrast to homogenising narratives of detainees’ villainy or victimhood, I found four distinctly gendered and racialised pathways to illegality among interviewed ex-detainees. These included Indonesian female migrant domestic workers (MDWs) charged with overstaying, who emphasised their resilience against abuse and destitution. Their journeys differed significantly from those of their Nigerian male counterparts, many of whom had not set foot in Hong Kong since their arrest for drug trafficking. They framed their experiences in terms of victimhood - having been trafficked or deceived - while actively seeking agency after long-term imprisonment. 

In contrast, illegal entrants arrived with an all-or-nothing mindset, taking significant risks to seek refuge in Hong Kong by boat. The final group included aspiring entrepreneurs and low-income expatriates attracted by the city’s dynamism, who overstayed their tourist visas for various reasons. While the state homogenised detainees as the crimmigrant other, there were at least four distinct pathways through which individuals could become trapped in this system.  

Finally, while all migrants interviewed described immigration detention as dehumanising, it unevenly influenced their decision to accept removal. Echoing research worldwide, my interviewees reported that their physical and mental pain was ignored in detention, leading to chronic anxiety and cynicism. They resented being surveilled like dangerous criminals in the new ‘Smart Prison’ and dismissed by frontline officers with remarks like ‘go back to your country’. Nine of my interviewees were detained for over a year; five for over two years. Prolonged detention strengthened their resolve to accept removal, in a bid to avoid wasting further time or even ‘dying here’ (in their own words).  

When speaking with CSO members who performed ‘dignified return’ work - encouraging detainees to view acceptance of removal as a way to escape limbo - I found that receptiveness to this message varied based on interviewees’ pathways to illegality. Former MDWs were more open to this perspective, having partially achieved their economic goals. Others endured detention until utterly demoralised. Illegal entrants faced the most traumatic removals - involving self-harm and violence - as they struggled to accept that their risks had been in vain. In contrast, a former detainee with a powerful passport and high literacy insisted on holding frontline staff accountable, ultimately securing a more favourable migration outcome. This diversity of experience suggests detainees exhibit pathway-specific expectations and vulnerabilities. 

Conclusion 

By offering an intimate look at a hard-to-reach population in Hong Kong, I found that top-down narratives of crimmigrant others, which emphasise dangerous masculinities, fail to capture the hyper-diversity among immigration detainees. These narratives are contested and shown to be inadequate in everyday interactions among detainees, frontline immigration workers, the judiciary, and civil society members. Understanding migrants’ pathways to illegality helps avoid oversimplifying their identities and experiences with border control. Hopefully, it will assist practitioners in reviewing the shortcomings of the asylum system and developing pathway-based interventions. 

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