London Heathrow. I was trying hard to put on my usual air of confidence. I was normally the most relaxed person in the world when crossing the border, but this time, I couldn’t keep my guts from rolling over.

Four days prior, I had received my second UK visa, entitling me to rejoin my wife in London. It had been an incredibly trying two months leading up to this moment — back home in Canada, trying to be present of mind with family, but mostly being loathe to leave the confines of my own headspace. I was consumed by the fear that my visa application would be rejected (even though I had little reason to doubt my chances). The moment I received my confirmation letter, the fear had, mercifully, melted away — only to be replaced by a new one as I entered Heathrow’s customs zone.

By now it should be no secret that, like millions of others, I’ve been (and continue to be) horrified by the revelations sparked by Edward Snowden. For almost as long as it has existed, the Web has been celebrated as a tool that naturally encourages democracy and freedom of expression; to see that same tool turned against the billions of people who use it every day is infuriating. The Web is now being used to silence and destroy the very things that we have treasured most about it.

I’m angry; and since the publication of the first story on PRISM, I’ve been making no secret of it. The majority of my tweets over the past year have not been of a favourable disposition towards the national security apparatuses of Western governments — especially the US and the UK. As someone whose life and work revolves very much around the Web, I’ve made it my mission to amplify signals of rebellion against the monstrosities born of the NSA and GCHQ. Warrantless, suspicionless, mass surveillance, the erosion of privacy, and the weakening of critical encryption systems are things I will not remain silent about, never mind these agencies’ implications in wars being fought in the name of Western “freedom”.

Having said this, as far as social activism and advocacy go, the methods I pursue are far from aggressive: tweeting, writing articles, attending conferences, giving the occasional talk on First Things First 2014 (inspired, in part, by the Snowden revelations). I’ve never attended, much less organised, a protest or rally. I don’t engage in hacking or anything remotely in the realm of tactical offence. I don’t encourage law-breaking or violence.

But despite the relatively tame manner of my public discourse, I couldn’t stop the marquee of headlines from carouselling through my head as I approached the customs officer: “XKeyscore: NSA tool collects ‘nearly everything a user does on the internet’”; “NZ man ‘stopped at airport because he attended Snowden meeting’”; “Metropolitan police detained David Miranda for promoting ‘political’ causes”. The rational part of my brain told me I’d be an idiot to think I was at risk of anything more than the usual stern questioning. But another part of me began to question if being so blatant in my opinions against the government had been the best decision.

As she started in with the usual line of questions, I realised this particular member of the UK Border Force was not going to be as outgoing and welcoming as others I’d spoken with over the past year. Her questions came fast and monotone, her reactions to my responses quick and sceptical. I didn’t hold it against her; but in the back of my mind I was also wondering what she was seeing on the screen in front of her as she scanned my passport and checked my fingerprints.

Just as I dared to think I was about to get my visa stamped and permitted to go on my way, she dropped a jackhammer on me: “I’m going to need you to come with me. There are some more questions you’ll have to answer.”

I was lead to a roped-off square in the customs hall, lined with black plastic chairs and watched over by a dour security guard. The customs officer gave me a printout stating that I was being held for further questioning; along the right hand side of the page was a check-boxed list of potential outcomes of this examination, including the withholding of my passport, or my immediate deportation. She asked me to take a seat, sealed the rope behind me, and left with my passport and visa in hand, without uttering a word of what was to happen next.

This was about the time that my heart began to throw punches at my ribcage and the nausea began to creep up my throat. In place of newspaper headlines, I now had only one word running through my head:

“Shit.”

Schedule 7 is a piece of UK legislation that allows police officers (and authorised border officers) to detain an individual attempting to enter the country for up to six hours; there is no requirement that the officer have any reasonable suspicion of the individual’s involvement in terrorist activities, but is part of the Terrorism Act 2000.

(Note: Previous to the Anti-social Behaviour, Crime and Policing Act receiving royal assent on 13 March 2014, individuals could be detained for up to nine hours; the ASBCP Act reduced this to six. It also introduced amendments “Ensuring access to legal advice for all individuals examined for more than one hour” and “Extending to individuals detained at a port the statutory rights to have a person informed of their detention and to consult a solicitor privately”. When David Miranda was detained by UK authorities at Heathrow airport in August of 2013, these amendments were not in place.)

During these six hours:

Any property seized must be returned after seven days, but data from mobile phones and laptops may be downloaded and retained by the police for longer.
Those detained are compelled to answer questions from the police and must not “obstruct” or “frustrate” any police searches.
If someone fails to co-operate they are deemed to have committed a criminal offence and could face up to three months in prison, a fine or both.
—BBC News UK: “David Miranda row: What is schedule 7?”

Even with the ASBCP Act amendments in place, Schedule 7 remains a draconian, terrifying piece of legislation, especially given that it has been used to detain and question members of the press. Furthermore, consider the role of the citizen journalist — how long will it be before not just member of the press, but ordinary people who blog, tweet or otherwise contribute to public knowledge, awareness, and dissent are detained under Schedule 7? The GCHQ is already surveilling every Facebook, Twitter and Google user in the UK, and it’s no secret how much of the rest of the world’s data is being gathered up by similar programmes. When broad-stroke legislation like Schedule 7 meets with the unfettered capabilities of mass surveillance, egregious abuses of power become increasingly bound to happen.

With perhaps an over-inflated sense of the impact of my tweets and articles, I began to wonder if such an event was about to happen to me.

I read the piece of paper in front of me over and over again. There was no one else in the small roped-off area of the hall, just myself and the guard. Throngs of passengers ambled by, the odd one tossing a curious glance my way, no doubt seeing a look of concern spread plainly across my face. My thoughts wandered back to the night before I left Canada — a conversation with my father, him worrying whether my continued railing against the surveillance state would give me problems at the airport or with my immigration to the UK, me glumly admitting that it seemed a possibility. It seemed ironic, as I awaited the return of the customs officer. I was still trying my damnedest to remain calm and confident; but this attempt was slowly being replaced with anxiety, and I wondered if my father’s concern would prove prophetic.

I began making promises to myself: “If I just get out of here, I’ll never run my mouth about surveillance ever again. I’ll keep to myself, keep my head down, and be a good, proper citizen. Just get me out of here. Just get me back to my wife.”

What seemed like an eternity — in all likelihood, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes — passed by, until the customs officer returned. She unroped a portion of the barrier and asked me to step forward. I stood up and prepared myself for the worst, presuming I was about to be led off to a secluded office for questioning.

She handed my passport and visa back to me. “Follow me, please.” She led me past the other officers’ wickets, at every turn of her step barking, “This way.” A few left-rights later, we emerged at the exit of the customs hall. She turned back the way we’d come, uttering a terse “On your way” before leaving me to move on to baggage claim.

I was stunned. No police officers? No investigations? No Schedule 7? Nothing? What just happened? What had this whole thing been about?

I decided not to linger around, and started at a brisk clip towards the baggage carousels, an incredible sigh of relief making its way across my lips.