Latino journalist detained by ICE says he's been 'emotionally destroyed'
Guevera, who left his homeland over 20 years ago and founded the Spanish-language news outlet MG News, was detained by ICE agents as he was reporting on a 'No Kings' protest on June 14 in the Atlanta area. The 47-year-old reporter's arrest was captured on video because he was live-streaming his news report as the incident occurred.
"I'm plainly convinced that my situation in this ICE jail is direct retaliation for my coverage,' Guevara recently told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. 'I haven't committed any crimes."
After spending a month in ICE custody, Guevara has described himself as being "emotionally destroyed" by his ongoing detention.
He believes that he is being made an example of by the government to dissuade people from monitoring ICE activities.
"[T]hey want to send a message that people can't be following ICE operatives or expose what's happening," he claimed.
On June 24, the Department of Homeland Security posted on X about Guevara's situation.
Read more: Journalist Mario Guevara is still in ICE detention despite being granted bond
'Mario Guevara, a Salvadoran national, is in ICE custody because he is in our country ILLEGALLY. Guevara was arrested by Dekalb County, Georgia police for willful OBSTRUCTION after he REFUSED to comply with local police orders to move out of the middle of the street,' the post claimed. 'Following his arrest by local authorities, ICE placed a detainer on him. Following his release, he was turned over to ICE custody and has been placed in removal proceedings.'
Regarding Guevara's residence status, his lawyer has noted that Guevara has a work permit and has a pathway to citizenship through the sponsorship of his adult son, who is a U.S. citizen.
Guevara has claimed that he is only allowed to be outside of his cell for two hours a day and that he was extorted by a fellow inmate, though ICE has not confirmed his claims.
'Everyone here knows me. One person even told me that I recorded his arrest. Imagine that," Guevara said of his notoriety among his fellow inmates.
According to the journalist, his online followers have expressed that his coverage of the ongoing ICE raids is sorely missed.
"People are realizing that they have to be informed when there are raids happening on a daily basis," he said. "It fills me with joy to know that my work had an impact. But I'm paying for that with my freedom. It's a high price."
Despite the joy he gets from informing his community about the latest news, Guevara plans on putting his reporting on hold if he were to be released from detention, due to his immigration status.
"I can't put myself at risk," he said. "Unless I become a U.S. citizen, my coverage will have to change."
Read more: Periodista hispano que documenta redadas migratorias en EEUU podría ser deportado tras ser detenido
Guevara — who self-identified as being more ideologically aligned with the Republican party, in part because of his Christian values — said his detention has made him reconsider his political alignment.
'I was confident that Trump was a smart man who could help in terms of the economy of the country, and that he could help give a boost to moral values in the U.S.," Guevara acknowledged. "[B]ut when he got into power, I realized that his ideology was completely different. It was simply persecution, persecution, persecution.'
He advised Latinos in the U.S. with the ability to vote to reconsider giving support to a man who continually acts "against our community."
Guevara also expressed regrets about how he has prioritized work over family throughout his career.
"That may have been the biggest mistake of my life, because now I'm realizing that work is not more important than family. But I am no criminal," he said. "My family needs me. I'm going to fight until the end."
In a previous statement released from detention, Guevara said that being in ICE custody for a month has left him unable to support his family, including his son who has a special condition that leaves him in need of constant care and attention.
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This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
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San Francisco Chronicle
an hour ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
This man is a U.S. citizen by birth. Why did ICE mark him for deportation — again?
As Miguel Silvestre stared at the government document he'd been emailed, he couldn't believe what he was reading. His full name was atop the 'Record of Deportable/Inadmissible Alien' form from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, but just about everything else on the page was false. Silvestre, a 47-year-old construction worker, was born in Stockton, but the document listed his birthplace and country of citizenship as Mexico. At the bottom were words that Silvestre didn't understand completely, though well enough: 'Received … on June 26, 2025 at 11:31. Disposition: Expedited Removal.' 'Now I have to be looking over my shoulder,' he said in a recent interview. 'It's hurtful.' Despite being a U.S. citizen by birth, Silvestre had reason to be paranoid about his status. Remarkably, this was not the first time the government had targeted him for deportation. After Stockton police arrested him for public drunkenness in 1999, Silvestre, then 21, was deported to Nogales, Mexico — twice — under an erroneous removal order. U.S. citizens cannot legally be deported. An immigration judge finally overturned the removal order in 2004, ruling Silvestre was indeed an American. It remains unclear why federal authorities created the new expedited removal paperwork. Known as an I-213, it's an internal record of people believed to be deportable created before the government initiates the deportation process. A Department of Homeland Security spokesperson, Tricia McLaughlin, said Silvestre was deported in 1999, under President Bill Clinton's administration, because he 'claimed to be a Mexican citizen without any legal status to remain in the U.S.,' an assertion Silvestre denies. 'This individual has no active immigration case and is not a target of ICE,' McLaughlin said. She did not deny that the agency had created the new expedited removal paperwork. Asked if it was created by mistake and whether it had been withdrawn, she did not immediately respond. 'ICE does NOT deport U.S. citizens,' McLaughlin said. 'We know who we are targeting ahead of time. If and when we do encounter individuals subject to arrest, our law enforcement are trained to ask a series of well-determined questions to determine status and removability.' When the Chronicle told Silvestre on Thursday about DHS' statement, he said he was relieved to learn he is not an ICE target. But he said he wanted to be certain that the removal paperwork had been or will be withdrawn. 'What they did to me was kidnapping,' he said of the 1999 deportations. 'The biggest thing is they humiliated me.' He said he wants the government to tell him, 'We've corrected it, you're an American and we apologize.' The latest threat of removal for Silvestre came as the Trump administration ramped up its mass deportation campaign of undocumented immigrants and asylum seekers, widening the net to include green card holders and floating the idea of shipping U.S. citizens convicted of crimes to Salvadoran prisons. But Silvestre's saga — propelled by government failures and complicated by his own struggles with the law — spans across administrations, exemplifying what experts say are due process violations in a deportation system that can ensnare vulnerable people with little understanding of what's happening to them. Although the immigration detention and deportation of U.S. citizens is illegal, it does happen, according to research, media reports, first person accounts and the U.S. government's federal watchdog agency. The Government Accountability Office said in a 2021 report that ICE safeguards against wrongfully deporting U.S. citizens are 'inconsistent,' resulting in the agency not knowing the extent to which its officers are arresting, detaining or deporting such people. Moreover, deportation can create a permanent stain, given that a person who is removed can be barred from entering the U.S. again for 10 years. A 2011 study by Jacqueline Stevens, director of Northwestern University's Deportation Research Clinic, estimated that 1% of people in ICE detention and 0.05% of those deported are U.S. citizens. ICE's own data, which Stevens said is probably an undercount, indicates the agency arrested 674 U.S. citizens from mid-2014 to mid-2020, removing 70. Most of the wrongfully deported weren't born in the U.S. but obtained citizenship through citizen parents — either at birth or because children under 18 generally become citizens when a parent naturalizes. Many don't have passports. Proving their citizenship in immigration court can involve tracking down their parents' or even grandparents' birth certificates. The deportation of American-born citizens like Silvestre is more uncommon. 'At best, the case is one of gross incompetence,' said Kevin Johnson, a UC Davis immigration law expert. 'The U.S. authorities were not careful with Silvestre's case and still are not being careful.' Catherine Seitz, legal director of the Immigration Institute of the Bay Area, said she'd heard of cases in which the government deemed birth certificates fraudulent because their holders were delivered by midwives. But to learn of a case with a hospital birth surprised her. It is concerning that the DHS created new removal paperwork, Seitz said: 'You would think they'd check with the court records. They should be able to see the termination. It could be an indication that they're going too fast and they're not doing their due diligence.' It was Northwestern's Stevens who unearthed the latest removal paperwork. In 2021, Silvestre had contacted her for help. She filed Freedom of Information Act requests with three Homeland Security agencies on his behalf. Last month, on June 30, she was checking her inbox when she found that Customs and Border Protection had finally responded to her inquiry. The records, shared with the Chronicle, reveal that immigration officials created the new paperwork for Silvestre's expedited removal, or deportation without a hearing, effective June 26. Stevens called Silvestre immediately, unsure whether he'd already been picked up. On July 4, he returned her call, and that's when she emailed him the deportation record. 'If U.S. citizens, who under the U.S. Constitution have full due process protections, are being detained and deported, that tells us an awful lot about the treatment of other people,' Stevens said, referring to immigrants seeking legal status. Silvestre's case, she said, is like a '900-pound gorilla in a coal mine.' A minor arrest goes wrong Silvestre was born on Feb. 16, 1978, at Dameron Hospital in Stockton. His parents, Ernestina and Raul, were working-class immigrants from Mexico. Raul, also a construction worker, was a U.S. citizen through his own father. By his own admission, Silvestre ran afoul of the law. Coming of age on Stockton's south side during a time of rampant gang violence, Silvestre said he grew up too fast. The baby of the family, he followed his two older brothers to car shows and hung out with the wrong crowd. He started drinking and smoking marijuana at around 11, tried methamphetamine soon after and was expelled from Franklin High School in 12th grade. He recalled his brothers warning him, 'You're not going to live to see 21.' At 18, with his father's help, he joined the local laborers union and started working. But before long he got into trouble, drawing a 1998 conviction for possessing meth and carrying a concealed gun without a permit. He was released on probation. On Super Bowl Sunday in 1999, Silvestre's dad kicked him out and told him he needed to get his life together. He sent the 21-year-old man to stay with his mother — the couple had separated — but on his way, Silvestre recalled, he ran into friends who invited him drinking. By the time he showed up at his mom's house, it was late, he was intoxicated and his family wasn't having it. His mom called the cops, telling him, 'Don't run.' Police officers took him to San Joaquin County jail, where he was stripped to his boxers and sent to the drunk tank. (He was not charged.) As he was trying to sober up, he said, three men in green uniforms came in and started questioning him in Spanish. ' De donde eres?' they asked. Where are you from? He said he replied in English that he was from Stockton. 'They're like, 'That's not what our paperwork says.'' The men loaded him onto a bus and drove to what Silvestre recognized as the Port of Stockton, the shipping hub on an eastern finger of the delta. Silvestre assumed he was being transferred to prison for violating the terms of his probation. He didn't know it at the time, but the men in green were from the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the agency known as INS that handled immigration before being split into three departments in 2003, including ICE. In a holding cell, he was surrounded by people speaking many languages. A man handed him a Bible and asked whether he was scared. 'We're being deported,' he told Silvestre, who didn't know what the word meant. 'I ain't scared of nothing,' he recalled saying. He was hotheaded. He'd always been scared of God, but not prison. Hours later, for reasons neither the Chronicle nor Silvestre nor Stevens could determine, the San Joaquin County Sheriff's Office released Silvestre to Border Patrol, which placed him in deportation proceedings, INS records show. 'The subject was interviewed at the San Joaquin County Jail after his arrest for DUI,' a Border Patrol agent wrote in a document dated Feb. 1, 1999. 'The subject said that he was a citizen of Mexico without immigration documents to enter or remain in the United States. He also said that he entered the United States at a place other than a port of entry to avoid immigration inspection.' Stevens called the record a 'fiction' contradicted by Silvestre's U.S. birth certificate. In a warrant for Silvestre's arrest, a Border Patrol agent claimed he was a Mexican national who entered the U.S. illegally near Nogales, Ariz., two weeks earlier — even though a litany of public records showed him to reside in California. Silvestre remembered a terrible journey south. After he and other men were loaded onto a bus, his stomach started hurting. He needed to use the bathroom badly but couldn't. As the sun rose, they arrived somewhere in Los Angeles. Shackled, he and the others were ordered onto a plane and flown to Arizona, where Silvestre was placed in a two-man cell with seven other men. His stomach still hurt. He recalled telling a guard he desperately needed to use the bathroom. His hands were in zip ties, so he had no choice but to defecate in his pants. When a guard returned to his cell and opened the food tray slot, Silvestre spat at him, he said. Soon, he heard the slot open again and felt something hit him in the eye that burned like mace. The door opened and he felt two to three men grabbing him. He was sprayed again, he said, burning his genitals. He felt like he was going to pass out. Silvestre's next memory is of being at a court hearing, though he remembers little of what happened. According to records, he told the judge he was a U.S. citizen, but the judge deferred to INS. The judge ordered him deported on Feb. 5, 1999. He was bused to the Arizona-Mexico border, where he was instructed to get out and continue on foot. He said he walked into Nogales, Sonora, hungry, thirsty and cold. Using the phone at a church, he called his parents and told them he was in Mexico. They were incredulous. His mom asked whether he was really out partying with his friends. 'I'm not lying to you,' he recalled saying. His father drove to Mexico armed with his son's birth certificate. Rescuing him took two tries: During the first attempt, Silvestre was stopped at the border, detained and swiftly deported. When he tried again, he showed his birth certificate and an officer admitted him. Detained again Silvestre found that the ordeal did not end with his return. Often, he said, he woke up terrified in the middle of the night, not knowing where he was. He felt nobody believed his account of what had happened. He was left with almost no proof except for a flimsy wristband that immigration officers put on him in detention. He began to feel suicidal and used drugs heavily. As years passed, he kept working, but also partying and getting into trouble. In 2004, his mother told him he needed to change his life. He decided to move to Arizona, where he found a job packing vegetables. One weekend that year, believing he was safe because five years had passed, he joined a friend from work on a weekend trip to Mexico, where they had pizza and beers. Upon trying to reenter the U.S. with his birth certificate and California ID, he was once again detained and held in Yuma, Ariz. 'Silvestre is a citizen and national of Mexico and of no other country,' ICE records from the time state. 'He does not have nor has he ever had documents with which to enter, live, work or stay in the United States.' ICE moved to deport him, alleging he was falsely claiming to be a U.S. citizen. ICE made the claim even though, two years earlier, the agency had run Silvestre's fingerprints after an arrest and correctly determined that Silvestre was who he said he was, records show. From detention in Yuma, Silvestre called his mother, who rushed to free him. She handwrote and notarized an affidavit in Spanish, stating, 'I am sending the evidence proving that my son Miguel Silvestre was born in the United States, in the city of Stockton, California.' Silvestre spent two weeks in detention before an immigration judge ruled on March 24, 2004, that he was indeed a U.S. citizen — and ordered him released. Homeland Security terminated deportation proceedings the same day. Back in California, Silvestre returned to more familiar problems. Later in 2004, he was convicted of carjacking with a gun and went to prison for three months. He bounced in and out of jail, as well as addiction treatment. Last year, his older brother accused him of threatening him, resulting in criminal charges. Silvestre maintains he's innocent. 'The truth is, it doesn't matter if this guy was a mass murderer,' said Johnson, the UC Davis law professor. 'He could go to prison and be punished but you couldn't deport him, as long as he's a citizen.' Though there is no evidence, Johnson said it's likely that racial and class profiling played a role in Silvestre's deportation. 'It's hard to imagine,' he said, 'the same kind of mix-up with a John Smith who goes to Pacific University.' In 2021, the Government Accountability Office reported that ICE policy did not require officers to update the citizenship field in their data systems after identifying evidence that a person could be a U.S. citizen. In Silvestre's case, the original 1999 mistake that seeded his long predicament was apparently unremedied in immigration records. In 2015, Silvestre said, he sobered up and devoted himself to God. But his mother's death in 2023 plunged him into grief that he hasn't recovered from. When he learned about the latest deportation paperwork, he said he felt suicidal. He got into his car and started driving recklessly, hoping police would pull him over. But then he sensed his mom was watching over him. 'Calm down, go back to your room, and go to sleep,' he heard her say. So he did. For 21 years, Silvestre hasn't left the country, fearful of being barred again. A drawstring bag that he carries everywhere contains his birth certificate, along with the immigration judge's order affirming his citizenship.
Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Yahoo
Fear of ICE raids is making heat intolerable for Southern California families
For the last 16 years, Isabel has worked harvesting carrots, lemons and grapes in the Coachella Valley. The undocumented mother of three — who, like others The Times spoke with, declined to give her last name out of fear for her family's safety — says the heat in recent summers has been increasingly difficult to manage. And now, with fewer workers showing up due to fears of ongoing immigration enforcement raids across California, Isabel says she and those who remain have to endure fewer breaks and more physical strain. Crews that once numbered five groups of 18 workers each are down to three groups of 18. The demands, however, haven't changed. 'You have to pack so many boxes in a day,' Isabel said in Spanish. 'If it takes you a while to get water, you'll neglect the boxes you're packing. You have to put in more effort." California's outdoor heat standard — which applies to all workers, legal or undocumented — guarantees breaks for shade and water. But the fear of falling behind often discourages workers from taking advantage, labor advocates say. And with fewer workers in the fields, employers have begun asking those who do show up to stay later into the day; some who used to be home by 1 p.m. are now in the fields during the hottest parts of the afternoon, they say. Isabel described a recent incident of a woman on her crew who appeared to be suffering from heatstroke. The supervisors did help her, "but it took them a while to call 911,' Isabel said. Sandra Reyes, a program manager at TODEC Legal Center, which works with immigrants and their families in the Inland Empire and Coachella Valley, said she has seen the same pattern unfold across California's agricultural communities. Fewer workers means greater physical strain for those who remain. And in the fields, that strain compounds rapidly under high heat. 'There are times when the body just gives out,' Reyes said. 'All of this is derived from fear.' Across Southern California, from fields to homes, parks to markets, the fear of immigration enforcement is making it harder for individuals and families to stay safe as temperatures rise. Early on June 18 in the eastern Coachella Valley, word spread among the agricultural workers that unmarked cars and SUVS — and, later on, helicopters and convoys of military vehicles — that they rightly guessed carried federal agents were converging on the fields. Anticipating a raid by Customs and Border Protection or Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the reaction was immediate. Workers — many undocumented — fled, some going into the fields, hiding beneath grapevines or climbing up date palm trees. Local organizers began to get calls from frightened workers and their families. Making matters worse was the heat. Inland Congregations United for Change, a nonprofit community organization in San Bernardino, sent out teams with water and ice. They found a number of people who had been in the blazing sun for hours, afraid to return home. Some had run out of water as temperatures soared to 113 degrees, eating grapes off the vine in an attempt to stay hydrated. 'There [were] people who are elderly, who need medication,' said J. Reyes Lopez, who works with the organization. Officials later confirmed that the multiple-agency operation led by the Drug Enforcement Administration had detained 70 to 75 undocumented individuals — part of the Trump administration's immigration enforcement effort. Read more: National Guard came to L.A. to fight unrest. Troops ended up fighting boredom In the days that followed, there were lasting impacts in the fields. 'Many [workers] have not returned to work, especially those with small children,' said TODEC's Reyes. And for those who did return, it soon became clear that they were expected to do the same amount of work, only now with fewer people. The summer of 2024 saw record-breaking heat in Southern California, and experts predict 2025 will be just as bad, if not worse. These rising temperatures — largely due to climate change — have serious effects on the health of workers and their families, said Arturo Vargas Bustamante, a UCLA professor of health policy and management. Exposure to extreme heat can trigger or exacerbate a raft of health issues such as cramps, strokes and cardiovascular and kidney disease, as well as mental health issues. It's not just agricultural workers who are affected. Car wash employees often are exposed to direct heat without regular access to water or breaks, said Flor Rodriguez, executive director of the CLEAN Carwash Worker Center. Because that industry has become a target for enforcement operations, car wash owners have had to hire staff to replace workers who have been apprehended or who no longer come in because they fear they could be next. That often means hiring younger or less experienced people who are unfamiliar with workplace conditions and protections. "The most dangerous day for you at work is your first day," said Sheheryar Kaoosji, executive director of the Warehouse Worker Resource Center. Even when workers feel physically unsafe, Kaoosji said, they may fail to speak up, due to fears about job security. When that happens, he said, 'preventative tactics like breaks, cooling down, drinking water, don't happen." Itzel — a recipient of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals policy whose family lives in Long Beach — has seen the same patterns among her co-workers in the landscaping industry. 'They wanna get to the job site early and they want to leave as early as they can,' she said. 'They're not taking their breaks. … They're not taking their lunches.' When they do, it's often for 30 minutes or less, with many choosing to eat behind closed gates rather than under the shade of a tree if it means they can remain better hidden. Overexertion under peak heat, noted Javier Hernandez, executive director of the Inland Coalition for Immigrant Justice, is becoming a survival strategy — a way to reduce exposure to ICE, even at the cost of physical health. Heat, unlike more visible workplace hazards, often goes unreported and unrecognized, especially in industries where workers are temporary, undocumented or unfamiliar with their rights. 'There's a huge undercount of the number of people who are impacted by heat,' Kaoosji said. 'Heat is really complicated.' Read more: The L.A. Times investigation into extreme heat's deadly toll And with ICE presence now reported at clinics and hospitals, access to medical care has been compromised. 'It's just another way for people — these communities — to be terrorized,' Kaoosji said. In the Inland Empire, where summer temperatures regularly climb into the triple digits, Hernandez said many families are now making impossible choices: Do they turn on the air conditioning or buy groceries? Do they stay inside and risk heat exhaustion, or go outside and risk being taken? These questions have reshaped Isabel's life. She now goes to work only a few days a week, when she feels safe enough to leave her children. That means there's not enough money to cover the bills. Isabel and her family now spend most of the day confined to a single room in their mobile home, the only one with air conditioning. Their electricity bill has rocketed from $80 to $250 a month. So far, her family has been able to make partial payments to the utility, but she fears what will happen if their electricity gets cut off, as has happened to some of her neighbors. Before the raids, Isabel's family would cool off at a nearby stream, go to air-conditioned shops or grab a raspado, or shaved ice. But in the face of heightened enforcement, these sorts of routines have largely been abandoned. 'Those are very simple things,' Hernandez said, 'but they are very meaningful to families.' Fear also makes it difficult to spend time at public cooling centers, libraries or other public buildings that in theory could offer an escape from the heat. Isabel's youngest child isn't used to staying quiet for long periods, and she worries they'll draw attention in unfamiliar public spaces. 'I do my best to keep them cool,' Isabel said, explaining that she now resorts to bathing her children regularly as one cooling strategy. Itzel's father, who is undocumented, hasn't left his apartment in over a month out of fear of immigration enforcement actions. He used to make up to $6,000 a month as a trucker — now, he can't afford to turn on his air conditioning. Where once there were weekend walks, family barbecues, trips to the park or the beach to cool down, now there is isolation. 'We're basically in a cell," Itzel said. "This is worse than COVID. At least with COVID, we could walk around the block.' The same has been true for Mirtha, a naturalized citizen who lives in Maywood with her husband, whose immigration status is uncertain, and their five U.S.-born children. In previous summers, her family — which includes four special needs children — relied on public spaces, such as parks, splash pads, shopping centers and community centers to cool down. Now her family spends most of the time isolated and indoors. Even critical errands such as picking up medications or groceries have shifted to nighttime hours for safety reasons. Meanwhile, her husband, a cook, stopped working altogether in early June due to fear of deportation. Even turning on their one small air conditioner has become a financial decision. Constant fear, confinement and oppressive heat has worsened her children's mental and physical well-being, she said. Staying indoors has also led to serious health challenges for Mirtha herself, who suffers from high blood pressure and other medical conditions. On a particularly hot day on June 21, Mirtha got so sick she ended up in the hospital. 'My high blood pressure got too high. I started having tachycardia,' she said. Despite Mirtha's citizenship status, she hesitated to call emergency services, and instead had her husband drive her and drop her off at the emergency room entrance. Summer temperatures continue to rise and enforcement operations keep expanding. 'We're only seeing the beginning,' said Mar Velez, policy director at the Latino Coalition for a Healthy California. 'People are suffering silently.' Jason De León, a UCLA professor of anthropology and Chicana/o and Central American studies, warns that deportations taking place in the summer will also probably force many to reattempt border crossings under the most dangerous conditions of the year. 'We're not only putting people in harm's way in the United States,' he said, 'but then by deporting them in the summer … those folks are going to now be running this kind of deadly gantlet through the desert again. They are going to attempt to come back to the only life that many folks have, the only life they've ever known.' Isabel insists they're here for one thing: to work. 'We came here just to work, we want to be allowed to work,' she said. 'Not to feel like we do now, just going out and hiding.' More than anything, 'we want to be again like we were before — free.' This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times. Solve the daily Crossword
CNN
2 hours ago
- CNN
A US war forced her parents to flee. Now, a Wisconsin mother has been deported back to the country she never called home
Ma Yang arrived at the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) office in late February with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Several days earlier, she had received a call from ICE asking her to report to her local field office in Milwaukee, Wisconsin – more than six months before she was due for her annual check-in. President Donald Trump had been inaugurated for a second time and his administration had already moved ahead with its promise to deport millions of immigrants from the US. 'In my gut, I already knew something was off,' Yang told CNN. Yang, a 37-year-old mother of five, was detained that day and deported two weeks later to Laos – a small country in Southeast Asia that her parents had fled four decades earlier. Yang had never been to Laos, is not a Laos citizen and does not speak Lao. Born in a refugee camp in Thailand, Yang resettled in the US with her parents and older siblings when she was 8 months old. She is Hmong, an ethnic minority group in Southeast Asia who helped the CIA during its so-called Secret War which ran parallel to the Vietnam War. Many Hmong, including Yang's parents, fled Laos after the fall of Saigon. Yang lived for decades in the US legally as a permanent resident until she pleaded guilty to marijuana-related charges in 2022. Under US law, non-citizens can lose their visas if convicted of certain crimes. After serving her sentence, Yang was transferred to an ICE detention facility and released in 2023 with a removal order from the US. Yang said her lawyer at the time assured her the removal order would not be acted upon – deportations to Southeast Asia were exceedingly rare. But that appears to be changing. Months into Trump's second term, as his administration ramps up its immigration crackdown, hundreds of people have been quietly deported to Laos and Vietnam, immigrant rights advocates say, in a stark departure from decades of US immigration policy in the region. The reported uptick in deportations to Southeast Asia comes as the Trump administration ramps up pressure on countries, including some with poor human rights records, to accept US deportees, alongside sweeping policy changes that include punishing tariffs and travel bans. Yang's deportation to Laos – a country her parents were forced to flee following US military intervention – underscores the sweeping and aggressive tactics Trump's White House is using to expel immigrants. Tricia McLaughlin, assistant secretary for public affairs at the Department of Homeland Security, confirmed Yang's deportation in a statement to CNN. 'Under President Trump and Secretary (Kristi) Noem, if you break the law, you will face the consequences,' McLaughlin said. 'Criminal aliens are not welcome in the US.' Between 1964 and 1973, the US dropped more than 2 million tons of bombs on Laos to destroy North Vietnamese supply lines that ran through the country, which is roughly the size of Oregon. The CIA recruited the Hmong to help them carry out their covert war against communist forces in Laos and Vietnam. The war decimated Laos and the Hmong. More cluster munitions were dropped on Laos during the Secret War than on Germany and Japan combined during World War II, making Laos the most heavily bombed country per capita in history. An estimated 30,000 to 40,000 Hmong civilians and soldiers were killed – a tenth of the Hmong population in Laos. Following the US withdrawal, the Laos communist regime declared the Hmong enemies of the state. Roughly 150,000 fled to neighboring Thailand, and later the US, mainly settling in California, Minnesota and Wisconsin. Yang, her parents and her older siblings arrived in Milwaukee, sponsored by a church as part of a mass refugee resettlement program that brought more than one million people from Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia to the US in the decades after the war. Growing up, Yang was one of 13 siblings, and her parents worked from sunrise to sundown to provide for their children. 'Life in America was tough for us,' Yang said. 'We were really poor.' Yang had her first child at 14 and married an abusive man who struggled with drug addiction. Eventually, after another baby and a divorce, she settled into a calmer life with her long-term partner Michael Bub, and they went on to have three more children. Yang's life was not easy, and she worked hard to be present for her kids. Yang and Bub gave their kids a slice of American life, with trips to the McDonald's playground and shopping at Walmart. The family would frequently gather around her table for warm bowls of khao poon, a curried noodle soup from Laos – her kids' favorite. For years, Yang worked as a nail technician in a salon in Milwaukee, but it closed during the pandemic and money was tight. One of Yang's family members asked if she and Bub wanted to make a few extra bucks by helping to fill marijuana vape cartridges and allowing packages to be shipped to their house. 'That one decision made our lives change tremendously,' Yang said. Yang said she was given poor legal advice, and if she had known a guilty plea would threaten her immigration status, she would have fought the charges. Instead, Yang pleaded guilty to conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute 100 kilograms or more of marijuana, was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. Bub was also sentenced to two years in prison but is a US citizen. Yang and Bub were in the process of rebuilding their lives before she was deported. They had recently bought a house in a better neighborhood. 'We got out, and we said we wanted to do better for ourselves and for our children,' Yang said. 'I never in a million years thought this would happen.' Yang is now living more than 8,100 miles away from Milwaukee in the Laotian capital of Vientiane, and facing down her future in an unfamiliar place, separated from her five children and partner. 'For me to get ripped away from my children is the most shocking,' Yang said, adding that her children are struggling to cope with her sudden disappearance. 'I was there, and then I wasn't.' Over Memorial Day weekend in May, as Americans mourned veterans who died in combat, a flight carrying more than 150 people who were once displaced by US wars left on a one-way flight from Dallas, Texas. Since Trump returned to office in January, advocates say his administration has deported hundreds of people to Vietnam and Laos. ICE does not have up-to-date data on deportations to specific countries, so immigrant rights groups have stepped in to fill the void. Vo Danh, a collective of organizers which advocates on behalf of immigrants and refugees from Southeast Asia, reported 65 people were deported to Laos and 93 to Vietnam on the Memorial Day weekend flight. In the days leading up to the flight's departure, advocates had noticed dozens of immigrants from Southeast Asia being transferred from detention centers across the US to a facility in Dallas. Immigration advocate Tom Cartright, who tracks chartered ICE flights, noted that in May, Laos accepted its largest flight of US deportees since he started tracking in January 2020 – a flight which then carried on to Vietnam. A spokesperson for Vo Danh, which has been tracking deportations on a case-by-case basis through its network of family members, estimates almost 300 people have been deported to Vietnam and 80 have been deported to Laos in the few months since Trump returned to power. By comparison, between fiscal years 2021 and 2024, 145 people considered by ICE to be nationals of Vietnam and just six considered to be nationals of Laos were deported, according to ICE. The DHS, ICE and the White House did not answer questions from CNN about how many people have been deported to Laos and Vietnam since Trump returned to office. A consular officer at the Lao Embassy in Washington, DC, told the Minnesota Star Tribune in July it has issued travel documents for 145 people to be deported in 2025, compared to about 10 in a typical year. Advocates predict another wave of people will be deported soon. Last month, the Homeland Security Investigations field office in St. Paul – which boasts a large Hmong population – announced on X a slew of arrests of 'illegal aliens' from Laos. Many of the people deported from the US to Southeast Asia in recent months are former refugees who committed crimes, some decades ago, and pleaded guilty without realizing they were risking their right to remain in the US, said Connie Chung Joe, the CEO of Asian Americans Advancing Justice Southern California, the US's largest legal and civil rights organization for Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders. 'They came here as war-torn refugees, very poor, limited English proficiency, without any cultural ties, and then the community did not have safety net support,' Joe said. 'So, you saw a lot of trouble that came out, including the proliferation of things like gangs, young people getting into trouble, and they would end up with some sort of criminal background.' Because of the risks these refugees faced if they returned home, and the refusal of some Southeast Asian countries to accept deportees from the US, relatively few people with removal orders – legal directives ordering a non-US citizen to leave the country – were deported. Instead, after making their way through the US criminal justice system, many Southeast Asians were told to report to ICE for annual check-ins while they continued their life in the US. As of May, 4,749 people considered by ICE to be nationals of Laos had removal orders from the US, according to Syracuse University's Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse (TRAC), which tracks immigration court data. There were 10,745 Vietnamese nationals with removal orders, according to TRAC. 'The majority of individuals (who have been deported) are American in everything except for their green card,' said Quyen Dinh, Executive Director of the Southeast Asia Resource Action Center. 'They are spouses to US partners, they have US children, they are taking care of elders who also fled as refugees of war and genocide.' During his first term, Trump struck a new deal with Vietnam to accept immigrants who came to the US before 1995, including war refugees, superseding a 2008 agreement not to deport them. The US also introduced new visa sanctions on Laotian government officials to push the country to accept deportees. But Trump left office before these plans could materialize, and the Biden administration lifted the Laos visa sanctions. Since returning to office, Trump has increased pressure on countries to accept deportees from the US – even deportees who are not citizens of those countries. After a court challenge, the Supreme Court ruled that Trump could deport migrants to countries other than their homeland, including South Sudan and Libya, with minimal notice. Last month, the Trump administration introduced full and partial travel bans on citizens from 19 countries, including Laos, citing the country's visa overstay rate and historic refusal to 'accept back its removable nationals.' McLaughlin, the DHS spokesperson, said Yang was released from ICE custody in 2023 'because at the time ICE could not remove aliens to Laos due to the country's refusal to issue travel documents. Now, under President Trump's leadership, Laos is issuing travel documents and Yang was able to be returned.' However, because Yang was born in a refugee camp, she is not a citizen of Laos and is considered stateless – a precarious legal status whereby someone is not considered a national of any state. Yang currently has a temporary ID card in Laos and was told by authorities that she will be eligible for citizenship, but it could take one year or more. Bub, Yang's partner, has undergone several brain surgeries and receives disability payments from the government. He is now struggling to support five children as a single father. Before Yang was deported, the couple were also caring for Yang's mother, who had suffered two strokes. But Bub found it too difficult to care for her and five children, so she's had to find alternative care. The couple say the family is serving a second sentence for their crime. 'We paid for what we did,' Bub told CNN. When Yang was deported, he said 'I wanted to trade places with her if they'd let me.' Dinh, from the Southeast Asia Resource Action Center, said the American government should be accountable for the fate of refugees from US wars. She and other advocacy groups are fighting to enshrine the status of Southeast Asian immigrants in the US and protect them against deportation. 'Our communities lost our entire homelands and livelihoods because of the destruction of our home countries, because of US decisions and US hands and US forces,' she said. 'When you accept a refugee, it is for the duration and the lifetime of the harm that you have done and have created.' Yang's family has created a GoFundMe to raise money to hire a lawyer to help reunite her with her kids in the US. 'I don't want to be forgotten,' Yang said. 'I want to fight to the very end for my case.' Each month she is away, she faces painful reminders of what she is missing out on. Last month, she missed her youngest daughter's graduation from kindergarten. Her eldest child, who was born when Yang was just 14, is taking the separation particularly hard. 'We raised each other,' Yang said. Yang's 12-year-old daughter recently told her she wanted to attend an anti-Trump rally to protest the immigration policies that had taken her mother away from her. 'This is not right,' Yang said. 'No kid should fear that this is what they have to do in order for their family to stay.'
