During the fall and winter months, Alexis Romero de Hernández faced a challenging new routine. Residing in a small central Venezuelan town known as Capacho, she lived with her husband and their younger son. Their elder son, Andry José Hernández Romero, a thirty-one-year-old makeup artist, was being detained in an immigration facility in San Diego. He called her every few days, typically late in the afternoon, to assure her of his safety. These calls were brief, lasting about a minute each. To maintain the calls, Alexis had to purchase credits for his calling card. “Mama, relax,” Andry would reassure her. “I’m fine. They’re treating us well. What’s tough is being stuck here.”
In Capacho, Andry was part of a local theater company and took part in an annual church procession during the Epiphany, which is celebrated as El Día de los Reyes Magos, or Three Kings Day, in Spanish-speaking countries. He had a passion for drawing and enjoyed adding artistic touches to every aspect of his life. During his time as a hotel receptionist, he created balloon decorations for the lobby; at home, he was known for designing costumes and clothing. He easily made friends, though Alexis noted he preferred not to drink or stay out late. “Andry is very, very humble and very, very open,” she shared with me over the phone. “He enjoys his own company. He cooks for me and helps with cleaning. He’s a real homebody.”
In 2023, Andry began working at a state-operated television station in Caracas, the capital city. It was a perfect fit for him—he prepared anchors and guests for on-screen appearances while his family, who ran a shop selling glass for mirrors and tables, greatly needed the extra income. However, as a gay man living under an oppressive regime, he became a target for mistreatment. Alexis described his year in Caracas as filled with “persecution and discrimination. Those in power often look down on those who are not.” He faced harassment regularly from armed vigilantes associated with the government, and he was even slapped by his supervisor at the station in front of coworkers.
When Andry announced his plans to leave Venezuela in late May 2024, his parents pleaded with him to reconsider. “Just wait to see how the elections unfold,” Alexis advised, referencing the presidential elections scheduled for August. His father also spoke with him, but ultimately, they could not dissuade him from leaving. In hindsight, Andry’s choice appeared prophetic: the current president, Nicolás Maduro, claimed victory in the elections despite seemingly losing by a large margin. Andry was among approximately seven hundred sixty thousand Venezuelans who made their way to the United States during the Biden Administration, crossing the notoriously perilous Darién Gap jungle between Colombia and Panama. “He made the journey,” Alexis said. “He sought to change his life, reach his potential, and help us here.”
On his initial attempt to enter the U.S., Andry was arrested and sent to Tabasco, Mexico, where a friend assisted him in downloading a government app that allowed migrants to schedule appointments at entry points. This system, referred to as CBP One, aimed to create a more organized procedure for entering the country. While it was meant to encourage migrants to come in a legal manner, securing an appointment often took months. On August 29th, a U.S. official conducted an interview with Andry at the U.S.-Mexico border in San Diego. Andry had no criminal background, and the meeting appeared to proceed without issues.
“Did you claim asylum while in Mexico?” the official inquired.
“I didn’t realize I could do that,” he responded.
Andry ultimately passed the preliminary asylum screening, with officials concluding he had a “credible fear” of persecution upon returning to Venezuela. However, during a physical examination, they focused on his tattoos. His left forearm and biceps were adorned with a snake entwined around a bouquet of flowers, and each wrist bore a crown with “Mom” and “Dad” tattooed in English. The images in his file depicted a slender man with a youthful visage, dark hair, and noticeable dark circles under his eyes, standing shirtless before the government photographer.
Andry José Hernández Romero.
Photograph courtesy Lindsay Toczylowski
Andry asserted that he was not associated with any gang. However, the interviewing agent characterized his “demeanor during the interview” as “uncooperative.” A note in his file stated: “Upon examining detainee Hernandez’s tattoos, it was noted that he has a crown on each wrist, which is recognized as an identifier for a Tren de Aragua gang member.” According to the government, these crowns contributed to the reasonable suspicion surrounding him.
Typically, asylum seekers who pass their preliminary screening are released with a scheduled court date, but Andry remained detained due to suspicions related to his tattoos. In December, three months after his arrest, he met Paulina Reyes, a lawyer with the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, who took his case on a pro-bono basis. Reyes submitted an asylum application for Andry, and they maintained regular communication, both in-person and over the phone, while awaiting a court appearance set for March 13th.
About a week before the scheduled hearing, Andry and several other Venezuelans in San Diego were moved to a facility in South Texas. Reyes, who had not been informed by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), learned of the transfer when Andry called her from Texas. That was the final time they spoke. During his March 13th hearing in San Diego, Reyes anticipated that he might appear via video. When he did not, the hearing was postponed until March 17th. Without the ability to talk to him, Reyes was unaware that, on March 14th, Andry managed to make one last phone call to his mother. He reassured her that he was alright but mentioned that the government was set to transfer him again, with no information about where he was headed.
When Andry missed his second hearing, the immigration judge questioned why he was not made available by the government. The ICE attorney replied, “He was removed to El Salvador.” The judge expressed surprise at this revelation, needing to determine whether or not Andry should be deported. “How could he be removed to El Salvador,” the judge inquired, “without a removal order?”
On March 14th: Donald Trump signed a proclamation announcing that his Administration would employ extensive Presidential powers granted under the Alien Enemies Act, a law dating back to 1798 that had previously been used sparingly. The act enabled the U.S. government to target immigrants from nations deemed “enemies.” Trump claimed that the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua was acting “in conjunction” with factions of the Maduro administration, having “infiltrated the United States” and engaged in “irregular warfare.”
The White House refrained from publicizing the proclamation for another day. Meanwhile, the government covertly began placing Venezuelans in federal custody on planes for deportation. Among them was Andry, along with two hundred thirty-seven others similarly accused of gang affiliation. The vast majority faced ongoing immigration cases, but they were denied the chance to contest the allegations against them. A senior ICE official later acknowledged that many of these individuals had no criminal records in the U.S. but maintained that this absence “actually highlights the risk they pose.”
El Salvador is a notoriously harsh destination. President Nayib Bukele has implemented suspensions of sections of the national constitution and has jailed over eighty thousand suspected gang members without clear charges in the last three years. In February, following a meeting in San Salvador with U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Bukele proposed housing immigrants arrested in the U.S. at his newly constructed prison, known as the Terrorism Confinement Center. “We have extended the opportunity for the United States of America to outsource part of its prison system,” Bukele noted on X. “The costs would be relatively low for the U.S., yet significant for us, rendering our entire prison system sustainable.”
On the day Trump enacted the order, Lee Gelernt, an experienced litigator with the American Civil Liberties Union specializing in immigrant rights, was in a courtroom in Washington, D.C., arguing against another controversial decision made by the Administration. Earlier, the President had sent a hundred seventy-eight Venezuelan men from U.S. detention to the military base at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. Following a legal challenge from the ACLU, the Department of Homeland Security sent the men back to Venezuela to avert a court battle over their access to legal representation. Nonetheless, the government indicated plans to relocate more migrants to Guantánamo. Gelernt was attempting to ensure they would have access to legal counsel. Prior to the hearing, he was monitoring early news reports about Trump’s intention to invoke the Alien Enemies Act aimed at deporting additional Venezuelan migrants.
Once the hearing concluded, Gelernt hurried back to his hotel, working through the night with his ACLU colleagues to assemble an emergency lawsuit. Their objective was to halt the government’s deportation of anyone under the Alien Enemies Act while the case was debated in court. “If people already had final orders of removal, the government wouldn’t require the Alien Enemies Act,” Gelernt commented. “The use of the Alien Enemies Act is solely designed to expedite the immigration process, bypassing hearings in immigration court and allowing the government to transport individuals wherever they choose.”
