‘We have to clear our names’: Venezuelan makeup artist who survived Ice detention tries to rebuild his life; The Guardian, August 4, 2025

Clavel Rangel, The Guardian ; ‘We have to clear our names’: Venezuelan makeup artist who survived Ice detention tries to rebuild his life

"Hernández, a makeup artist, was one of 251 Venezuelan men flown from Texas to the notorious Cecot maximum security prison in El Salvador as part of Donald Trump’s crackdown on immigration. They endured months in a facility described as the “cemetery of the living dead” before finally being repatriated in late July, following a deal between the US and Venezuelan governments...

Life inside Cecot followed a bleak rhythm. There was no sunlight, no answers, no information. But always, there was the sound of handcuffs. “I think they used it as emotional control – that sound of the cuffs and the doors,” he recalled.

The yelling never stopped. “For everything. Because we spoke. Because we asked questions. For everything.

“If that’s how they treated us, knowing we were just migrants, I don’t even want to imagine how they treat the regular inmates – the ones who’ve actually committed crimes,” he said.

As a gay man, Hernández endured relentless harassment and taunting by the guards.

“In El Salvador, believe me, human rights don’t exist. And LGBTQ rights? Even less. People in there who belong to the community have to be brave... we carry an extra burden. It’s hard for a regular prisoner to accept that he shares a cell with someone from the community. Someone different. Someone who loves the same sex. Who sees the world differently.”"

Venezuelans deported by Trump to El Salvador describe ‘horror movie’ mega-prison; The Guardian, July 24, 2025

Marina Dunbar and agency , The Guardian; Venezuelans deported by Trump to El Salvador describe ‘horror movie’ mega-prison

"Arturo Suárez, whose reggaeton songs surfaced on social media after he was sent to El Salvador, arrived at his family’s home in the Venezuelan capital, Caracas, on Tuesday. His sister hugged him after he emerged from a vehicle belonging to the country’s intelligence service.

“It is hell. We met a lot of innocent people,” Suárez told reporters, referring to the prison he was held in. “To all those who mistreated us, to all those who negotiated with our lives and our freedom, I have one thing to say, and scripture says it well: vengeance and justice is mine, and you are going to give an account to God [the] Father.”...

Meanwhile, Andry José Hernández Romero, a gay makeup artist who had been deported to Cecot under an obscure wartime law invoked by the Trump administration, was among those released.

Romero had entered the US legally through the CBP One app last summer, seeking asylum, but eventually was detained and removed to El Salvador with the others.

The Immigrant Defenders Law Center, based in Los Angeles, is now appealing Romero’s case, according to ABC, asserting that he was denied his legal right to seek asylum.

Romero broke down in tears when he was finally reunited with his parents in Venezuela on Wednesday, reported ABC News 10.

“His entire town was waiting for him, preparing a meal,” said Melissa Shepard, legal services director at the California non-profit."

‘We Know Donald Trump Wants the Story to Die’; The Bulwark, April 23, 2025

ADRIAN CARRASQUILLO, The Bulwark; ‘We Know Donald Trump Wants the Story to Die’

"The representatives who traveled to El Salvador also sent a letter to Secretary of State Marco Rubio demanding the State Department continue wellness checks on Abrego Garcia, secure his access to counsel, and work for his return in compliance with the U.S. Supreme Court order.

But while Abrego Garcia has garnered by far the most attention of the detainees sent to El Salvador, the four House Democrats also asked for proof of life of Andry José Hernández Romero, a gay, 19-year-old Venezuelan makeup artist whose detention has also made waves. Hernández Romero was classified as a gang member because he has tattoos that say “mom” and “dad” with crowns.

Ansari told me no one had heard from Hernández Romero, who has been documented to have no history of criminal activity, since March 14.

“Everyone is extremely worried about him,” she said from El Salvador. “We’ve had no proof of life in over a month.”

Lindsay Toczylowski, the president and CEO of Immigrant Defenders Law Center, which is representing Hernández Romero and nine others sent from the United States to CECOT, told The Bulwark the last person to speak to Andry was his mother. At the time he spoke with her, he thought he was being sent to Venezuela."

What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced; Time, March 21, 2025

Philip Holsinger, Time ; What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced

"Around 2 a.m., the convoy of 22 buses, flanked by armored vehicles and police, moved out of the airport. Soldiers and police lined the 25-mile route to the prison, with thick patrols at every bridge and intersection. For the few Salvadorans, it was a familiar landscape. But for a Venezuelan plucked from America, it must have appeared dystopian—police and soldiers for miles and miles in woodland darkness.

The Terrorism Confinement Center, a notorious maximum-security prison known as CECOT, sits in an old farm field at the foot of an ancient volcano, brightly lit against the night sky. I’ve spent considerable time there and know the place intimately. As we entered the intake yard, the head of prisons was giving orders to an assembly of hundreds of guards. He told them the Venezuelans had tried to overthrow their plane, so the guards must be extremely vigilant. He told them plainly: Show them they are not in control.

The intake began with slaps. One young man sobbed when a guard pushed him to the floor. He said, “I’m not a gang member. I’m gay. I’m a barber.” I believed him. But maybe it’s only because he didn’t look like what I had expected—he wasn’t a tattooed monster.

The men were pulled from the buses so fast the guards couldn’t keep pace. Chained at their ankles and wrists, they stumbled and fell, some guards falling to the ground with them. With each fall came a kick, a slap, a shove. The guards grabbed necks and pushed bodies into the sides of the buses as they forced the detainees forward. There was no blood, but the violence had rhythm, like a theater of fear. 

Inside the intake room, a sea of trustees descended on the men with electric shavers, stripping heads of hair with haste. The guy who claimed to be a barber began to whimper, folding his hands in prayer as his hair fell. He was slapped. The man asked for his mother, then buried his face in his chained hands and cried as he was slapped again.

After being shaved, the detainees were stripped naked. More of them began to whimper; the hard faces I saw on the plane had evaporated. It was like looking at men who passed through a time machine. In two hours, they aged 10 years. Their nice clothes were not gathered or catalogued but simply thrust into black garbage bags to be thrown out with their hair.

They entered their cold cells, 80 men per cell, with steel planks for bunks, no mats, no sheets, no pillow. No television. No books. No talking. No phone calls and no visitors. For these Venezuelans, it was not just a prison they had arrived at. It was exile to another world, a place so cold and far from home they may as well have been sent into space, nameless and forgotten. Holding my camera, it was as if I watched them become ghosts."