
Reprieve for critically ill Mexican girl, 4, who could have died within days if deported under Trump order
The family of a four-year-old girl from California who is suffering from a rare disease will be spared deportation so that she can continue to receive life-saving medical treatment in the U.S.
The family was granted temporary humanitarian permission to enter the U.S. from her home country of Mexico in 2023 after the little girl, Sofia, urgently needed treatment for short bowel syndrome, a rare condition that stops her from absorbing nutrients in food. The treatment she required was not available in Mexico and she condition was worsening, according to the family's lawyers.
The family was targeted for deportation by the Trump administration, according to their lawyers. However, following media reports highlighting her case, lawmakers organized to demand she be given the chance to stay for humanitarian reasons.
In April, the girl's mother, Deysi Vargas, learned that her humanitarian protections and her own permission to legally work in the U.S. was being revoked by the Trump administration, and a letter informing of her of that change advised her to voluntarily leave or else "the federal government will find you."
Sofia's condition requires her to receive regular medical treatments that force her to be hooked up to an intravenous feeding system for 14 hours at night. Only a specialist team from Children's Hospital Los Angeles can oversee her medical needs. Her doctors at the hospital told the Los Angeles Times that she could die within days of stopping her treatments.
'By moving quickly, the agency has ensured that a four‑year‑old girl can continue receiving the specialized medical treatment that keeps her alive,' the family's attorney, Rebecca Brown of the nonprofit Public Counsel, told the LA Times. However, many families still face harm under the sweeping policy to do away with humanitarian parole. We ask the government to ensure that no one be put in harm's way.'
A group of 38 congressional Democrats, including California Senators Alex Padilla and Adam Schiff, gathered to condemn her scheduled deportation and advocate on the family's behalf.
The family learned on Monday via a letter from the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service that they had been granted "Humanitarian Parole for a period of one year."
The Trump administration previously denied that the girl was being deported after her story became national news. Last week, a Department of Homeland Security spokesperson told The Independent via email that the family's application for humanitarian parole was "still being considered."
'Any reporting that Vargas and her family are actively being deported are FALSE,' the official said. 'This family applied with USCIS for humanitarian parole on May 14, 2025, and the application is still being considered.'
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The Guardian
an hour ago
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Bill Cross pulled his truck to the side of a dusty mountain road and jumped out to scan a stretch of rapids rippling through the hillsides below. As an expert and a guide, Cross had spent more than 40 years boating the Klamath River, etching its turns, drops and eddies into his memory. But this run was brand new. On a warm day in mid-May, he would be one of the very first to raft it with high spring flows. Last year, the final of four hydroelectric dams on the Klamath River were removed in the largest project of its kind in US history. Forged through the footprint of reservoirs that kept parts of the Klamath submerged for more than a century, the river that straddles the California-Oregon border has since been reborn. The dam removal marked the end of a decades-long campaign led by the Yurok, Karuk and Klamath tribes, along with a wide range of environmental NGOs and fishing advocacy groups, to convince owner PacifiCorp to let go of the ageing infrastructure. The immense undertaking also required buy-in from regulatory agencies, state and local governments, businesses and the communities that used to live along the shores of the bygone lakes. As the flows were released and the river found its way back to itself, a new chapter of recovery – complete with new challenges – emerged. Among the questions still being answered: how best to facilitate recreation and public connection with the Klamath while recovery continues. There are hopes for hiking trails, campgrounds and picnic spots. A wide range of stakeholders are still busy ironing out the specifics and how best to define the lines between private and public spaces. It's a delicate process. Not just the ecology is being restored; the Indigenous people whose ancestors relied on the river for both sustenance and ritual across thousands of years are also renewing their relationships with the land. More than 2,800 acres, some of which emerged from under the drained reservoirs after the dams came down, will be returned to Shasta Indian Nation, a tribe that was decimated when construction on the dams started in the early 1910s. Ready to be stewards, they are also now navigating their role as landowners in a recreation region. On 15 May, the first opening day for new access sites on the Klamath, visitors got the first real glimpse of the extensive restoration efforts since demolition began in 2023. It also served as an early trial for how the public and an eager commercial rafting community might engage with the river and the landscapes that surround it. As the sun broke through a week of cloudy weather that morning, rafters readied their gear near an access now bearing the traditional name in the Shasta language, K'účasčas (pronounced Ku-chas-chas). 'If we were here a little over a year ago, we would be standing on the edge of a reservoir,' said Thomas O'Keefe, the director of policy and science for American Whitewater, as he helped Cross and Michael Parker, a conservation biologist, ready their boat for a stretch of river above where the Iron Gate dam once stood. The Guardian joined them to try the section on opening day. O'Keefe has played a pivotal role in bridging recreation and restoration on the river. He hopes connecting people to the landscapes will encourage future care for them. 'The vast majority of people want to do the right thing,' O'Keefe said, describing the extreme care taken towards ecologically and culturally sensitive areas. 'We want to make sure we can define where that can happen.' There is still a lot of work left to do. Rustic roads that lead to the river's edge are minimally paved and laden with potholes. It's not immediately clear where visitors should park. 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The Iron Gate run bumps and sways through a mix of class II and class III rapids, enough for a fun ride that's manageable for most experience levels. Upriver, the exciting and challenging K'íka·c'é·ki Canyon run winds through more than 2.5 miles of class IV rapids, beckoning those with more expertise. As he called out paddling orders to navigate his boat's small crew through splashy sections, Cross was relieved. In the years before the dams came out, he'd worked to outline the new river and its whitewater potential, armed with historical topographic maps, old photos and bathymetric data that showed depth and underwater terrain. Rooted in science, it requires a bit of guesswork. The volcanic geology here often comes with surprises. 'I spent the first six months sweating bullets watching the water recede and the channel scour and wondering if there was going to be a waterfall I didn't predict,' he said. 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Even as recovery on the river remains perhaps at its most fragile, most people who have been part of this enormous undertaking are looking forward to welcoming the public. 'I think one of the biggest fears of this project is that it wouldn't work,' Coffman said. 'I am excited for more folks to get out here and see what we are capable of.' The work goes beyond the water line. The lands that hug this river have had their own transformation, along with the people who once called them home. 'People are really focused on dam removal and fish and recreation – and those are all great things – but it is a very personal story for us,' said Sami Jo Difuntorum, cultural preservation officer for the Shasta Indian Nation. As the tribe returns to their ancestral lands, they are envisioning ways to introduce themselves to a largely unfamiliar public. Their story is laced with tragedy, but also resilience. Shasta Indian Nation is not federally recognized, largely because they were massacred in the mid-19th century when gold-seeking settlers poured into the region. Their villages and sacred lands were drowned in the damming of the river. But the people tied to these lands have largely remained close by; many still reside in the county. As the waters of the reservoirs receded, it revealed a place held at the heart of their culture for thousands of years. 'The return of our land is the most important thing to happen for our people in my lifetime, for the generation before and the generation ahead,' Difuntorum said, standing on a quiet overlook watching the river course through the sacred K'íka·c'é·ki Canyon. This steep basalt chasm was left dewatered while the river was rerouted to the hydroelectric plant. 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James Sarmento, a linguist and tribal member, is helping Shasta people learn and use pronunciations for recovered places as they were once known along with the stories of creation tied to them. The public will learn them, too. 'It's about making a relationship and having conversations with the land,' Sarmento said. 'These are landscapes that we are not only working to protect – we are working to speak their names out loud.' The darker moments in the tribe's history live on. Remnants of the now-inoperable hydroelectric plant still sit solemnly on the embankment: coils of metal, enormous pipes, nests of wires that connect to nothing. A cave, tucked into the steep slopes among ancient lava fields where 50 or so Shasta people sought refuge in the mid-1800s, still bears the violent marks of a miners' raid that left five people, including women and children dead. Difuntorum said it used to be hard for her to see it all. 'I don't feel that now,' she said. 'Of all the places I have been in the world, this is where I feel the most me – out here at the water.' Cross, O'Keefe and Parker pulled up their paddles to ease into the final float of the run, gliding through the channel that once propped up the Iron Gate dam. Overhead, an osprey settled into its nest with a large fish as a throng of small birds scattered into the cloudless sky. There are sure to be challenges ahead. The climate crisis has deepened droughts and fueled a rise in catastrophic fire as this region grows hotter. Habitat loss and water wars will continue as city sprawl, agriculture and nature increasingly come into conflict. For now though, the river's recovery is a hopeful sign that a wide range of interests can align to make a positive change, even in a warming world. 'I never thought I would see the run under reservoirs be revealed,' Cross said, smiling as he packed up his boat. As a new chapter begins, the Klamath has already become a story of what's possible, fulfilling the hopes that the project could inspire others. And, after decades of advocacy and years of work, 'we have salmon and beaver and poppies,' he said. 'This river will go on forever.'


The Guardian
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