Miami U student stuck in Denmark after being released from Danish jail over Uber dispute
A Miami University student and his friend have been released from a Danish jail but cannot return home after an Uber ride dispute, according to the student's family.
The family of Owen Ray, a 20-year-old student at Miami, said he was arrested March 31 with his friend during a trip in Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark, after an argument turned physical with an Uber driver.
Ray's family says the Uber driver threatened Owen and his friend over not paying for a canceled fare. The duo had ordered an Uber to their hotel and realized they selected the wrong hotel once they were in the car. The driver declined to take them to the right hotel and they exited the car, canceling the ride in the app but still paying a fee for the fare, the family said.
The family says the driver left but returned five minutes later, threatening the students over not being paid. The driver exited his car and then assaulted Owen, causing a scuffle that Owen and his friend fled from, according to Owen's family.
Uber confirmed the students paid for their fare, according to a statement to Enquirer media partner Fox19. The driver reported to Uber that he was assaulted by the two students, not the other way around.
Still, the next morning, Owen and his friend were at the airport to fly back to the United States when they were arrested by Danish authorities, the family said.
They were sent to Vestre Prison, a pre-trial jail in Copenhagen, where they remained in custody for two weeks before they were released Monday. Now, with their passports confiscated, it will take some more time before they're allowed to return home.
"The facts make clear that Owen is the victim in this case, and we urge Danish officials to allow him to return home to the United States without delay," said Owen's parents, Andy Ray and Sara Buchen-Ray, in a statement.
The U.S. State Department, through an embassy in Copenhagen, is providing consular assistance to the two students, according to a department spokesperson.
This article originally appeared on Cincinnati Enquirer: Miami student stuck in Denmark after going to jail over Uber ride
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Yahoo
8 hours ago
- Yahoo
Mother details ‘nightmare' after Trump sends son to El Salvador mega-prison where he's being held incommunicado
The last time Ydalis Chirinos Polanco heard from her 25-year-old son was on March 15, when he called her from the El Valle immigration detention center in Texas. He thought he was coming home to Venezuela. Instead, that same day, he was put on a plane to the notorious CECOT prison in El Salvador, a maximum-security facility for terrorists and gang members where he has been held incommunicado ever since. 'He left Venezuela for a better future and it turned into a nightmare,' Chirinos Polanco said through a translator in an interview with The Independent from her home in Valencia, Venezuela. She used to speak daily with her son. She hasn't heard from him in over 85 days. Being sent away so soon wasn't what Ysqueibel Peñaloza had hoped for when he arrived in the U.S. last September, passing legally through California's San Ysidro border crossing, after barely surviving a journey through the Darien Gap in the Panamanian jungle. The plan was to earn money to send back home, and he joined a friend in Raleigh, North Carolina. He found work as a gardener and Uber driver, according to his family and lawyer. (Uber said it did not have a record of Peñaloza working for the company.) Since he was a teenager, Peñaloza, who a past employer from Chile described as 'honorable and hardworking' in a support video, had worked to pay for his younger sister's education. His wages in America allowed him to send enough money back home to fund a semester of her training to be a physical therapist. The 25-year-old's temporary stint in the U.S. was cut short in February, when immigration agents detained him and his friend Arturo Suarez, a Venezuelan singer who uses the stage name Suarez Vzla, as they filmed a music video. Peñaloza had entered the U.S. legally, using the CBP One app, which allowed him to remain in the country temporarily as he awaited an April court date. But he and Suarez were among the more than 100 Venezuelans that the administration eventually accused of being members of the Venezuelan Tren de Aragua gang, using the wartime Alien Enemies Act of 1798 to summarily deport the men from the U.S. without letting them challenge their removals in court. Peñaloza's mother said her son has never had anything to do with a gang, and was too committed to his work to ever get into trouble. The Department of Homeland Security, for its part, told The Independent that Peñaloza was arrested during an operation 'targeting a known Tren de Aragua gang member,' which netted multiple arrests and a firearm. He was then 'confirmed to be' a member of the gang on March 15 — the same day Trump invoked the Alien Enemies Act and the removal flights departed to El Salvador. The department declined to share the basis of this conclusion. 'We are confident in our law enforcement's intelligence, and we aren't going to share intelligence reports and undermine national security every time a gang member denies he is one,' Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin wrote in a statement to The Independent. 'That would be insane.' Chirinos Polanco only found out her son had been sent to CECOT when she spotted him in the slickly produced propaganda videos of the men being manhandled and shaved by prison guards at the facility in El Salvador, thanks to an olive branch tattoo on his right knee. He resurfaced again in May, in the background of a visit to the prison by Matt Gaetz, the former Trump administration attorney general nominee, who is now a host at OAN. In the prison, which has a $6 million deal with the U.S., Chirinos Polanco said she saw her son waving to the camera in what she interpreted as a hand signal for help. Around him, inmates jeered at Gaetz and cried 'Freedom!' in Spanish at the passing camera crew. 'He doesn't know that his family is fighting for him to get out,' Peñaloza's mother said, through tears. Chirinos Polanco worries about her son's state of mind inside CECOT, which was designed to house terrorists and is home to scores of admitted gang members that Salvadoran officials openly say will likely never be released. Prior to being sent to CECOT, the quiet 25-year-old told his mother he would sit and cry to himself for hours in immigration detention. She says she can only imagine what it's like now, since 'they have terrorized him in El Salvador.' The circumstances of his arrest — a sudden sweep of an immigrant who entered the U.S. legally, before a court process could play out, with little publicly presented evidence of gang membership, and baffled family members — have been common among the Venezuelans sent to CECOT under the Alien Enemies Act. U.S. immigration officials have insisted they conducted a rigorous vetting process to find the men's gang and other criminal affiliations. Internally, though, the Trump administration knew that just six of the 238 Venezuelans known to have been sent to CECOT had been convicted of violent crimes, while over half had no criminal record or pending charges at all outside of immigration violations, according to government data obtained by a coalition of U.S. and Venezuelan news outlets. (The government insisted, in response to the reporting, that the men in the data are 'actually terrorists, human rights abusers, gang members and more — they just don't have a rap sheet in the U.S.') Further confounding scrutiny, the government has not publicly released a list of those it sent to the prison, and has shared little public evidence of the men's alleged gang ties. As The Independent has reported, the federal government appears to have instead largely based its gang determinations on tattoos many of the men had, even though family members, tattoo artists who made the images, and experts on Venezuelan gangs say the tattoos don't symbolize membership in Tren de Aragua. The Department of Homeland Security told The Independent that 'its intelligence assessments go well beyond just gang affiliate tattoos and social media.' The entire process amounts to an egregious violation of due process, according to Margaret Cargioli, directing attorney for policy and advocacy at the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, an advocacy group representing eight of the men inside CECOT, even though it can't communicate with them. 'What has been one of the most astonishing things is the utter disregard of human beings' due process and their human rights, due to being sent to a place where it was known they would be excommunicated from their families, attorneys, and loved ones, as well as have no access to justice,' Cargioli told The Independent. She said the government did not, and still hasn't, presented 'any evidence' in immigration court that Peñaloza was a gang member before sending him to CECOT. DHS Assistant Secretary McLaughlin added in her statement that the administration has a 'stringent law enforcement assessment in place that abides by due process under the US Constitution.' 'There IS due process for these terrorists who all have final deportation orders,' she wrote. Those challenging the Alien Enemies Act removals argue the men were removed without any meaningful notice, chance to challenge their status, or decision on final removal orders from an immigration judge, the typical deportation process. When asked, the White House did not answer specific questions about the evidence against Peñaloza or criticisms of the removal process to CECOT. 'President Trump is committed to keeping his promises to the American people and removing dangerous criminal and terrorist illegal aliens who pose a threat to the American public,' White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said in a statement to The Independent. 'CECOT is one of the most secure facilities in the world and there is no better place for the sick criminals we are deporting from the United States.' Faced with this immigration black hole, mothers like Chirinos Polanco have taken on the role of activists. They have staged protests in Caracas, kept in touch with each other during regular meetings and calls, and shared money to support those who depended on their now-detained relatives for remittances. During the interview, Chirinos Polanco, in between sharing family photos, was preparing for a sit-in in front of a United Nations office in Caracas, the kind of demonstration staged by countless women living under repressive regimes in Latin America on behalf of their disappeared loved ones — only this time, the protest is directed at the world's most powerful democracy. Chirinos Polanco said the detentions weigh heavily on the families that they left behind. Her father can't bear to look at pictures of Peñaloza. One of the women she was in touch with, the grandmother of a man in CECOT, recently died of a heart attack in Perú, which her family attributes to the disappearances, Chirinos Polanco said. U.S. courts may offer these families a last chance to connect with their loved ones. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled in May that the administration didn't give the alleged Tren de Aragua members the proper chance to contest their removals, and on Wednesday, a federal judge gave the government a week to explain how it would 'facilitate' giving these 137 men a chance at appeal. Such an unlikely reversal has some precedent. After months of public pressure, and a Supreme Court ruling that the U.S. must aid in his return, the U.S. retook custody of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran immigrant it admitted it had mistakenly sent to CECOT despite a court order barring his removal to El Salvador. The U.S. initially claimed it didn't have the power or the need to seek Garcia's return, though the government appears to have changed course, and the man now reportedly faces a federal grand jury indictment in the U.S. for allegedly illegally transporting undocumented immigrants. Chirinos Polanco hopes, with the world watching, the U.S. will finally give a fair hearing to the remaining men inside CECOT. 'We all should have the right to defend ourselves and be heard,' she said. 'Those Venezuelans who were sent to CECOT, they were silenced completely.' Until that silence is broken, Chirinos Polanco barely sleeps and often wakes up early. She's waiting for a phone call from her son that might never come.
Elle
a day ago
- Elle
The ‘Dept. Q' Season 1 Finale Finally Reveals Merritt's Fate
Every item on this page was chosen by an ELLE editor. We may earn commission on some of the items you choose to buy. Spoilers ahead. Viewers were enraptured by the first season of crime drama Dept. Q, which followed irritable cold case detective Carl Morck (Matthew Goode) investigating a strange disappearance. Unsurprisingly, the season 1 finale of Dept. Q—which is based on a 10-book series by Danish crime writer Jussi Adler-Olsen—answered a ton of questions about what happened to missing lawyer Merritt Lingard, but it also brought a few more to light. Here's what you need to know about how the first season of gritty detective drama Dept. Q comes to an end. A flashback in episode 8 reveals that Merritt conspired with her high school boyfriend, Harry Jennings, to steal her mother's jewelry in order to raise money to start a new life. However, Merritt's younger brother, William, intervened during the robbery, which led him to become badly injured, causing a traumatic brain injury. In the present day, Merritt figures out she was kidnapped and held hostage by Harry's mom, Ailsa Jennings, and his younger brother, Lyle. Merritt refuses to apologize for Harry's death, despite Ailsa's insistence that her son would be alive if it weren't for the robbery scheme. 'Harry said she weren't right in the head,' Merritt tells Lyle, before calling him the 'psychotic brother.' After she proclaims, 'Harry Jennings deserved to die,' Lyle starts trying to break the glass of the hyperbaric chamber Merritt is locked in—if successful, the sudden change in pressure will likely kill her. As he's hitting the glass, Merritt sees Lyle's face and calls him Sam. In the same episode, the detectives at Dept. Q discover that Harry's brother Lyle had been posing as investigative journalist Sam Haig and having an affair with Merritt. The audience also discovers that Lyle and Ailsa were able to kidnap Merritt from the ferry as she'd told Sam—who was really Lyle in disguise—what time she would be traveling to Mhòr. In an old video shown at the start of the finale, a young Lyle shares that his mother used to lock him in the hyperbaric chamber as a form of torture or punishment. It's also revealed that Lyle would regularly hallucinate Harry following his death, and at one point believed Sam, who was incarcerated with him at the same 'institution for troubled boys,' was his dead brother, according to Tudum. Having been diagnosed with Enhanced Personality Disorder, Lyle remained in a mental health institution until six years ago, when he started working on the ferry to Mhòr. Lyle and Sam reconnected as adults, which led to an unfortunate series of events. While most believed Sam had died in a tragic climbing accident, it turns out that Lyle was responsible for his former acquaintance's death—as well as stealing his identity to get close to Merritt. Before his death, Sam also shared some details about his work as an investigative journalist, which Lyle later used to his advantage. A local police constable on Mhòr hears Merritt's mysterious 911 call, in which she only manages to scream, and travels to Ailsa's residence. He finds Merritt inside the hyperbaric chamber and is approached by Lyle. 'Boy, tell me I am not looking at what I'm looking at,' the officer tells Lyle. 'Tell me that is not Merritt fucking Lingard.' It's then revealed that Lyle told the police officer that Merritt fell overboard on the ferry, describing it as 'poetic justice' for what happened to Harry years earlier. 'What am I supposed to do?' the officer asks Lyle, who tells him to get in his car and drive away as if nothing has happened. When the officer refuses to leave, Lyle viciously murders him with a hammer, then returns to slowly killing Merritt by altering the pressure in the hyperbaric chamber. A flashback in episode 9 shows Merritt's brother William hitting Harry over the head with a hockey stick, thinking he's an intruder. While Harry is lying on the floor, William questions why he's there, not realizing Lyle is standing behind him. Lyle proceeds to repeatedly beat William, whose serious head injuries cause lifelong damage. The detectives in Dept. Q deduce it was Lyle who grievously injured William, not Harry. Just before Merritt disappeared on the boat, William had violently lashed out at his sister, but it wasn't because he was angry. 'You were afraid because you saw Lyle on the boat,' Akram says, showing him a picture of Lyle. William confirms the man he saw wearing a baseball cap with a picture of a cormorant on it was also Lyle. The team at Dept. Q later find out that, when Lyle was a teenager, he kidnapped another kid and locked them in the hyperbaric chamber for several days. As a result, Carl and Akram decide to visit Lyle's mom, Ailsa. Receiving no response from Ailsa's trailer, they enter an industrial building on her land and discover the police constable who was murdered by Lyle. Nearby, they find the hyperbaric chamber and rush to the control room to try to stop the pressure from increasing and killing Merritt. Detective James Hardy provides information about hyperbaric chambers to Carl and Akram over the phone. Before they can attempt to help Merritt, Lyle enters the control room with a gun and shoots Carl. Unbeknownst to Lyle, Akram is pretending to be dead. When Lyle approaches them, Akram stabs him, grabs the gun, and shoots, killing the kidnapper. Luckily, Carl survives the gunshot, and the pair are able to rescue Merritt from the chamber in time. Merritt is carried out of building by paramedics and is greeted by her brother William, who is delighted to see her again. Lyle's mom, Ailsa, attempts to escape Mhòr, but is apprehended as she exits the ferry. Before she can be arrested, Ailsa reaches for a gun inside her car and shoots herself in the head. Upon returning home, Carl is greeted by his stepson Jasper, lodger Martin, and therapist Rachel, who has stopped by to leave a gift for him. Three months later, Merritt visits the police station where she thanks Carl's boss, Moira, for reopening the investigation into her disappearance. Merritt also reveals she's yet to meet Carl, whom she wants to thank in person. Moira says Carl is taking an indeterminate amount of time off from work, and Merritt shares her plans to return to Mhòr to spend time with brother William and their estranged father. Carl surprises Merritt's boss, Lord Advocate Stephen Burns, and asks him to officially allow Akram, a refugee from Syria, to become a police detective. In return, Carl promises he won't tell anyone about Stephen's involvement in the witness tampering that took place in Merritt's final case before she was kidnapped. Before the episode ends, Merritt enters the basement in which Dept. Q operates, but finds the room empty. She almost bumps into Carl when exiting the elevator, but he doesn't reveal his identity. In the final scene, Carl is shown carrying a box of cold case files to his desk and is joined by fellow investigators Akram, Rose, and Hardy.
Miami Herald
3 days ago
- Miami Herald
A daughter with DACA, a mother without papers, and a goodbye they can't bear
Michelle Valdes' mom thinks she sees immigration agents everywhere: in the lobby of the building where she cares for elderly clients, at the local outlet mall, on downtown corners. The fear is constant. Driving to work, going to the store —just leaving the house feels too risky for her. At work, while she cooks and cleans in her clients' homes, she listens as stories of immigration detentions, deportations and constantly changing laws and policies play loudly in English from the TV. The 67-year-old undocumented Colombian national who has lived in the United States for more than a third of her life has stopped driving completely, opting for Uber, and ducking down in the backseat when she sees police officers. As a Jehovah's Witness, she has chosen not to do her door-to-door ministry and only attends church on Zoom. But what keeps her up at night these days is that she will soon go without seeing her daughter, likely for close to a decade. She is preparing to leave the United States after 23 years, leaving behind her 31-year-old daughter, a DACA recipient or 'Dreamer' who came to the United States when she was 8 and is still in the process of gaining her green card. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, is a federal program that protects undocumented people who came to the U.S. as children from deportation. 'I don't want to feel like I'm going to be spending two months in some detention center in the middle of God knows where, where none of my family members see me,' she said in Spanish during an interview with the Herald. She asked not to use her name for this story because she fears she could be targeted. 'I'm done,' she said. Her daughter's immigration situation is also precarious, even though she is married to a U.S. citizen. His family, from Cuba, got lucky when they won the visa lottery. But her family did not have such luck. Valdes' family did what immigrants often do: They fled danger, asked for political asylum, hired lawyers and filed paperwork. And they lost. Last year, only 19.3% of Colombian asylum cases were approved, according to researchers at Syracuse University. Even in 2006, when violence was at a very high point in Colombia, only 32% of asylum cases were approved. Their family's story reveals the toll a constantly changing and exceedingly complicated immigration system has on families who tried to 'do the right thing' and legalize their status. Now, under President Trump's administration, which has ramped up enforcement and the optics around it, being undocumented has become even more hazardous. People who have been living and working in the shadows in the United States are now being forced to decide if the reward of seeking a better life is still worth the risk. And those who are following the rules are afraid the rules will keep changing. The mother has already started packing boxes. Denied asylum Valdes' mom had never heard of the American Dream. She said she had never even heard the phrase 'el sueño americano' before coming to the United States. The family fled Colombia in 2002, leaving behind comfort and status. Valdes' mother had been an architect in Cartagena, a city on the South American nation's Caribbean coast. The family had a driver, a cook and a nanny. But violence by the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, the rebel group known as FARC, was encroaching on their lives: armed robbery at their home, threatening calls and the kidnapping of her cousin, a wealthy businessperson. The family was forced to pay a ransom for his release. The early 2000s in Colombia, under President Andrés Pastrana, were years of intense violence by guerrilla gangs such as the FARC, who targeted wealthier Colombians. 'They would just pick up anybody who they believed they could get money from,' said Valdes. Her aunt would often call Valdes' mom from Florida, telling her their family would be safer here. The family arrived on a tourist visa in 2002, found a lawyer and applied for asylum. It was denied in 2004. Under U.S. immigration policy, people who have suffered persecution due to factors such as race, religion, nationality, membership to a social group, or political opinion can apply for asylum. It must be filed within a year of arrival in the United States. Valdes' family's interview did not go well and they were placed in removal proceedings. They appealed and in 2006 took the case to the U.S. Board of Immigration Appeals. The family's asylum application claimed that Valdes' mom would be killed by the FARC guerilla gang if she returned to Colombia, in connection with her cousin's kidnapping. But the court ultimately found holes in her case, and said her fear is not well founded and that she failed to prove that she would be in danger if she returned to Colombia. Their final motion was denied in part because it was filed 45 days late, according to the court filing. Valdes was just 11 years old when the courts denied her family's final plea to stay in the United States. The family was issued removal orders. 'I feel like I made a mistake asking for asylum,' said Valdes' mother. 'I wasn't guided well because I was scared and didn't know what to do.' She says predatory lawyers charged her close to $40,000 but never told her the truth about her odds of winning the case. 'It's pure show,' she said in Spanish. 'I believed they would help, but they did nothing.' By then, Valdes and her brothers were attending public schools in West Palm Beach, a right undocumented children have because of a supreme court ruling which passed narrowly in the early '80s. 'I just kind of poured my whole life into school, just to kind of distract myself from other things going on in life, specifically with immigration,' she said. In fifth grade, she won the science fair. At Roosevelt Middle School she was in the pre-med program and the national junior honor society. She always had A's and B's in school. But when her middle school national honor society was invited to Australia, she had to stay behind, unable to travel because she was undocumented. At Suncoast Community High School, she was invited to sing in a choir concert in Europe, but again, she could not go. In 2007, ICE detained Valdes' parents and her eldest brother. Her other brother and Valdes were picked up from school and reunited with their parents at the ICE office. Valdes' mom said the officer told her that since the family had a removal order, they needed to deport at least one person to prove they completed their quota for the day. But to this day, Valdes and her mother can't fully explain why the father was deported but they were released. Was it luck? Did the ICE officers sympathize with their family? Then 13, Valdes remembers standing in the Miami immigration office as agents took her father away. 'He was wearing jeans, a tan coat and a gray-blue fisherman's hat,' she said. 'What I remember the most is that there was, like, some sort of feeling that I got, that I knew that I was never gonna see him again.' He was deported in January of 2007, when Valdes was in seventh grade. It was the only semester she ever failed in school, she said. Her father died at 69 in Colombia in 2022. A petition for him to get legal status and return to the U.S., filed on his behalf of his son from a previous marriage, was approved a year after his death, said Valdes. '17 years too late,' she said, in tears. DACA as a lifeline In 2012, Valdes and her mother were preparing to leave the United States for good. Flights were booked. Boxes mailed. Then, just 14 days before departure, President Obama announced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. The program was meant to protect children like Valdes, who came to the U.S. at a young age. Valdes was 18. Her phone lit up with messages from people in her community who knew she was undocumented. She applied that October. As a 'Dreamer,' or DACA recipient, she's protected from deportation and able to work legally — but can't travel outside the country. Her two older brothers, Ricardo and Jean Paul, had already left the country by then. After attending public schools and graduating from high school, the brothers could not attend college or find work. So in 2011, they returned to Colombia, and their mother sent them money to attend university. They both still live there and haven't seen their mom in 14 years. Valdes' situation was slightly better, but without legal permanent residency, she didn't qualify for most scholarships. The one scholarship she did get was a $4,000 scholarship from the Global Education Center at Palm Beach State, but $1,500 was deducted in taxes because she was considered a foreign student. Starting in 2014, Florida universities provided in-state tuition waivers for undocumented students under certain conditions. But because Valdes didn't enroll in college within a year of graduating from high school, she lost access to the waiver. That waiver was recently canceled in Florida for undocumented students, and starting July 1, at least 6,500 DACA recipients in Florida enrolled in public universities will have to pay the out-of-state tuition rate. 'When people asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I would ask for money to pay my tuition,' she said. Throughout those years, people would come to Valdes asking for help filling out their work permit applications, DACA applications and other legal forms, and they would say, 'Wow, you are so good at it.' Although she never wanted to do anything law or immigration related, she kept getting pulled in that direction, and decided to get her paralegal certificate, Valdes said. She now works at an immigration law office. Her plan is to go to law school after getting hands on training. 'I always thought: When I turn 18, I'm an adult — 'why am I still tied to my mom's case?' ' she said. 'But nobody explained it.' At her job in the law office, she finally learned the full truth of her case. Her name is still listed on her mother's asylum application — the case that was denied in 2006. So she still had a final removal order connected to her name. That case, and its order of removal, still haunts her. Although she's married to a U.S. citizen, it will take her years to adjust her status to get a green card and permanent residency status. The process will involve her husband filing petitions and waivers explaining that it would be an extreme hardship for him if she were deported. Valdes will have to leave the country and re-enter. In all, the process could take around eight years. Former president Joe Biden had a program to help people like Valdes, whose family is of 'mixed-status' but the program was shut down by Republicans. Immigration attorneys say there are fewer and fewer pathways for people married to U.S. citizens to legalize their status. The roadblocks and complications frustrate Valdes to tears. Valdes said that it is not fair that 'under our immigration system, a child, at such a young age, has to suffer the consequences of the parents' mistakes.' 'No es justo, no es justo,' she said, crying. It's not fair. But immigration laws, enforcement and policies are changing every day. 'People say 'get in line, get in line, get in line,' and then you get in line, and it's like, 'Oh, too bad, you don't apply with that anymore, or we're just going to change the laws. Or, you know, you aged out, or you didn't submit by this day,' said Valdes. In the past weeks, ICE agents across the nation have even begun detaining people as they exit immigration courthouses. Some are individuals with final orders of deportation like Valdes and her mom. Just this week, the Supreme Court ruled that President Trump can revoke humanitarian parole for over 500,000 migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua and Venezuela. President Trump has spoken favorably of DACA recipients, but nonetheless, 'Dreamers' still have to reapply every two years, and there is no guarantee their right to legally be in the U.S. will not be revoked. Immigration attorneys say DACA could be the next program to be shut down by the Supreme Court. 'How shaky is DACA? How solid is it?' Valdes asked. Same fear, different country Valdes' mom says she now feels the same fear in the United States as she did in Colombia — maybe worse. 'I'm scared. Terrified,' she said. 'I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on alert.' For years, she tried to hold on. But after 23 years, she's tired of living in limbo. Valdes and her mom try not to think much about the fact that they are leaving each other, focusing more on the present and getting through each day. Valdes' mom says her ultimate goal was always for her daughter to get an education in the United States, and now that her daughter has a job, a husband, and is planting roots, she feels like she can go and let her daughter live her life. She left Colombia because she was 'tired of being followed. I was tired of being paranoid. I was tired of never being able to have my freedom, to just live, because I was always so scared. And fast forward, 23 years later, I'm just in the same boat in a different country,' she said. The hardest part for Valdes is imagining being pregnant and then giving birth without her mom by her side. But, she says, 'Now I tell her, I totally understand. It's your turn to finish living your life, Mom. I want her to be at peace, and I want her to rest.' As her mother prepares to leave, Michelle is left with the frustration of knowing that there's nothing she can do. 'I am still helpless. I still can't help her. I still can't help myself. It's a looming darkness you carry every day,' said Valdes.
