In a little Cantonese restaurant in Markham, a large fish tank caught my eye as I waited for my wontons to arrive. I was instantly captivated by a small turtle swimming back and forth, waving its little legs. It was the most active turtle I’ve ever seen in this setting.
I couldn’t explain it at the time, but I felt a strong urge to set it free.
Then, I started to think of all the other turtles in tanks that I never paid much attention to and how I never felt an urge to set them free. It made me wonder: if they were set free, would they be as active as the turtle I saw that day?
What does freedom, or the absence thereof, do to a turtle? If a turtle acts freely despite the apparent lack of freedom, are they any more deserving of freedom than one that does not? If a less active turtle was set free, would that be all they would need to thrive? What duty of care did I owe to this turtle? Before I knew it, I started researching turtles.
There are over 350 species of turtles, including sea turtles that live in saltwater and freshwater turtles, also known as terrapins. Turtles inhabit every continent except for Antarctica and play a role as symbols in folklore around the world. Today, turtles are commonly kept as pets. In other contexts, turtles have been the target of hunters for their use in traditional medicine or for their shells. Unfortunately, turtle habitats are being destroyed, threatening the extinction of certain species.
The unique adaptations of various turtles have given them the ability to thrive in very different environments. Sea turtles spend almost their entire lives in the ocean, only coming to shore to lay eggs. They have streamlined, hydrodynamic shells and flippers that are designed for efficient swimming in open water. They can hold their breath for long periods and have special glands near their eyes that excrete excess salt from seawater.
Freshwater turtles live in rivers, lakes, and ponds. Their limbs are usually webbed but not as flipper-like as sea turtles. They walk on land more frequently and can climb onto logs or rocks to bask in the sun.
I then started identifying the other fish in the tank to determine whether they were freshwater or saltwater fish—they were freshwater fish, so this was a freshwater turtle. Now, contemplating my well-intentioned thought of freeing this turtle by the ocean and how it would have likely resulted in its demise made me shudder.
At this point, I had to admit to myself that I was spending a considerable amount of time researching turtles, but many of my questions remained unanswered. As I watched the turtle swim in its endless loop, I began thinking about the parallels between this confined creature and our approach to human confinement. What started as a simple observation about this turtle’s captivity evolved into questions about the nature of institutionalization itself.
The restaurant’s fish tank was clean, the water filtered, and the feeding schedule regular, whereas our systems of confinement often fail to provide even these essentials. Provincial prisons exhibit frequent population turnover, making it difficult to establish consistent rehabilitation programs. People cycle in and out, either awaiting trial or serving short sentences, their lives suspended in a liminal space between freedom and confinement.
Some turtles in captivity stop swimming altogether, floating listlessly or hiding in corners. Others, like the one before me, continued to swim forward despite glass barriers. I wondered if this mirrors what correctional officers observe in their facilities. Some individuals seem to shut down, while others maintain an internal sense of freedom despite their physical constraints.
As I watched a patron’s child press their face against the glass, I thought about the barriers that separate incarcerated parents from their children. The turtle in the tank had no offspring to care for, no family waiting for its return. How many children are struggling to grasp why a parent suddenly became accessible only through glass barriers and scheduled visits? The term “secondary prisonization” kept surfacing in my research, describing how the effects of incarceration ripple outward, touching lives far beyond the confined individual.
The effects of incarceration also extend far beyond the period of confinement. Just as a turtle raised in captivity might struggle to survive if suddenly released into the wild, individuals leaving the prison system face overwhelming challenges. They must navigate a world that has often changed dramatically during their absence, with limited resources and the lingering stigma of their past.
My research into turtle rehabilitation programs interestingly revealed that the most successful ones don’t simply release turtles into the wild. They create structured environments that gradually introduce the skills needed for survival. I couldn’t help but compare these turtle rehabilitation programs to human rehabilitation programs that emphasize community integration and practical skill development.
The reality of recidivism—whether in rescued turtles or formerly incarcerated individuals—speaks to the complexity of freedom. It’s not enough to simply remove the barriers; we must understand what freedom means in practice. A study conducted from 1986 to 2004 along the coast of Florida showed that following their release, 21% of rescued turtles were recaptured incidentally in a recreational fishery, with 71% of recaptures occurring within the vicinity of the release location. A person might return to familiar but destructive patterns or environments because they haven’t been given the tools to access new ones.
What struck me most was the power of narrative in shaping outcomes. When we label a turtle as “captive” or a person as “incarcerated,” we risk defining their entire existence by their containment. Yet, each has a story that extends beyond their confinement—a before, a during, and crucially, an after. The turtle in the restaurant tank had a history I didn’t know and a future I couldn’t predict.
The turtle’s movements seemed more purposeful now, each lap of the tank a testament to persistence in the face of limitation. Unlike this turtle, which was at least adapted to its environment, our justice system often places people in settings that feel alien and hostile. This is most clear in the treatment of Black, Indigenous, and other people of colour, who face not only the trauma of confinement but also the compounded weight of systemic racism.
My initial impulse to free the turtle now seemed naive, as does our society’s assumption that punishment alone can address complex social issues. The root problems—poverty, racism, homelessness—remain untouched by our current approach to justice. Much like my focus on the terms of the turtle’s confinement, we focus on containing individuals rather than addressing the conditions that lead to their imprisonment.
The restaurant was getting busier now, the lunchtime crowd filtering in and people passing by the tank without a second glance. How many of us, I wondered, similarly overlook our community members in prisons, treating their absence as just another feature of our social landscape? Incapacitation—the inability to commit crimes while detained—seemed a poor measure of success when weighed against the human cost of separation, disruption, and lost potential.
This brought me back to my question about duty of care. If we take beings into our custody, whether they’re turtles in tanks or humans in prisons, what are our obligations? Simply keeping them alive seems insufficient. There must be a greater purpose, a responsibility to ensure that the time spent in confinement serves some rehabilitative function, even if we can’t always see the results. It was then that I realized what swam in front of me was a turtle trapped in more than its own shell.