Despite refugee status in the US, young Venezuelan was deported to Salvadoran prison

E.M. and his girlfriend fled persecution in their native Venezuela in 2021 and dreamed of making a new life in the United States.

The young couple spent two years in Colombia before applying for refugee status in 2023 to come to the U.S. Struggling to survive in Colombia, they worked tirelessly in informal jobs, selling food on the streets and making deliveries to make ends meet.

On Jan. 8, after they were finally granted the coveted refugee status, E.M., 29, and his girlfriend, Daniela Palma, 30, finally arrived in the United States, flying into Houston.

Upon arrival, an immigration officer asked E.M. the question that changed his life in moments.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

E.M. had already been asked that by U.S. authorities in Colombia as part of an extensive background check, and he now gave the same answer. He lifted his shirt and pants and showed the immigration officer tattoos on his chest, legs and arms — a crown, a soccer ball and a palm tree.

At that point, it no longer mattered that E.M. had no criminal record, and that he had been granted refugee status, with the full legal right to enter the United States. Immigration officials decided the tattoos were evidence enough to suspect he might be a member of Tren de Aragua, a prison-born Venezuelan gang whose members have earned a reputation in Latin America as fearless and ruthless.

E.M. was detained. His girlfriend, threatened with detention for months herself, agreed to be deported back to Colombia.

E.M. spent the next couple of months in three different immigration detention centers in Texas, his girlfriend said.

On March 15, the Trump administration deported him, along with over 200 other Venezuelans, to El Salvador, where they were promptly imprisoned in a maximum-security facility with a troubling history of violating human rights and where men sleep hundreds to a cell on steel beds with no mattresses or pillows.

His girlfriend and his family suspected he had been sent to the fearsome prison, the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo — Terrorism Confinement Center, known by its Spanish initials, CECOT. On Thursday, CBS News got its hands on the entire list of all Venezuelans sent to El Salvador. E.M.’s name was on it.

E.M. is not the only Venezuelan granted refugee status in the U.S. who was deported to El Salvador, the Herald has learned; another man, who was detained longer than E.M., shared the same fate. However, his family has chosen to remain anonymous to avoid jeopardizing his safety.

Rebuilding their lives

E.M., whom the Herald is not identifying by his full name for his safety in case he is forced to return to Venezuela, fled his country in 2021 with his girlfriend to escape persecution they endured from the government. They had been targeted by authorities and colectivos — Venezuelan armed paramilitary groups — in their hometown, his girlfriend said, for exposing government shortcomings and for their efforts to help their local community.

The couple fled to Colombia, which shares a large — and porous — land border with Venezuela.

For the next three years, E.M. and Palma worked to rebuild their lives. E.M. mainly worked in deliveries, navigating the busy streets of Bogota to earn enough to support themselves while awaiting the results of their refugee status application.

They applied for refugee status – a protection granted to individuals who are unable or unwilling to return to their home country due to past persecution or a well-founded fear of future persecution – to enter the United States. They kept out of trouble — neither had a criminal record in Colombia or Venezuela, according to the Colombian National Police and the Venezuelan Ministry of the Interior and Justice.

The next 17 months were filled with background and criminal checks and countless interviews — by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, the International Organization for Migration, and finally U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.

During their interview with the U.S. agency in September, an officer asked E.M. and his girlfriend if they had any tattoos. E.M. said he did, his girlfriend said. The officer didn’t raise any alarms, and the tattoos didn’t appear to be an issue. After the thorough background checks, the couple was granted refugee status, their future seemingly secured. The dream of starting fresh in the U.S. appeared within reach.

The tattoo question

At George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, they were screened — and that’s when an immigration officer again asked E.M. if he had any tattoos. The immigration officials in Houston said E.M.’s tattoos were similar to those seen on members of Tren de Aragua. That moment marked the beginning of the couple’s troubles and separated them from each other, Palma said.

“It’s unfair to criminalize every Venezuelan. Having a tattoo or being born in Aragua doesn’t make you a member of a criminal gang,” Palma told the Herald. She described her boyfriend as a passionate about sports, especially soccer, a gentle man and an entrepreneur.

They had been together for five years, though they had known each other as kids growing up neighbors in a poor town in Aragua state, in central-west Venezuela.

Aragua state is where the infamous Tren de Aragua gang originated. The gang’s roots trace back to the infamous Tocoron prison, where its leaders, many of whom were hardened criminals, began organizing and establishing their power.

E.M.’s tattoos were inked more than a decade ago when he was just a boy, E.M.’s uncle, Noel Guape, said.

Law enforcement authorities in Texas have linked tattoos to the Tren de Aragua gang, using them as a way to identify suspected members. However, experts have said that, unlike many other criminal gangs, TdA members don’t have specific, identifiable tattoos.

E.M.’s family is now left in anguish, wondering if he’s safe.

“He is the kind of person who illuminated a room just when he walked in,” his uncle told the Herald. “He is the life of the party, always bringing laughter and warmth wherever he goes.”

Catholic Charities of Dallas had been expecting to help E.M. and his girlfriend transition into life in the U.S. when they learned he had been detained and Palma had been deported.

“The refugee services that our organization provides do not have the power to influence arrival decisions or deportation processes,” said Nadia Ahmad Daniali, the case manager in charge of reception and placement of the Venezuelan refugee couple.

During his last call from E.M. a week ago, he told his uncle he knew he was going to be deported. He didn’t specify the destination, but the family assumed it would be Venezuela. But as the days passed without word from E.M., and his alien registration number disappeared from the online immigration system, his family panicked. They worried he had been sent to El Salvador, where he had no connections and where his life might be in danger.

Since last Friday E.M.’s family desperately had tried to contact the ICE detention centers where he had been last held in Texas, but no one had been willing to provide any information about his whereabouts. It wasn’t until Thursday afternoon they found out he was on the list of the hundreds of Venezuelans sent to El Salvador.

‘He is not a criminal’

Several Venezuelans families have told the Herald their family members were deported to El Salvador despite not having any criminal record in the U.S or elsewhere.

Jerce Reyes Barrios, a professional soccer player from Venezuela, took part in peaceful demonstrations against the Nicolas Maduro regime in 2024. He was detained, tortured with electric shock shock and suffocation. When he was released he fled to the U.S. seeking protection.

Reyes’ story was detailed in a court document filed by his attorney, Linette Tobin, in a federal court case in Washington, D.C., where the ACLU is challenging the deportations of the Venezuelans to El Salvador.

Reyes registered with CBP One, a mobile application developed by U.S. Customs and Border Protection that allowed migrants to schedule appointments at ports of entry along the U.S.-Mexico border.

Reyes used the app to secure an appointment and, on the day of his scheduled entry, he presented himself to CBP officials, but his tattoos raised alarms. He was detained and sent to the Otay Mesa Detention Center near San Diego. Despite having no criminal record in Venezuela, no links to gangs and no history of violence, Reyes was treated as a criminal, his lawyer said.

After applying for asylum in December 2024, he was deported to El Salvador last week without any notice to his lawyer or family, his attorney said. His loved ones were left in the dark, wondering what had become of him.

Reyes and E.M. were deported with another 236 Venezuelans the same day the Trump administration invoked the Alien Enemies Act, an 18th Century law that had been used only three times in history — all during times of war or invasion. Under the law, Trump asserted the power to arrest, relocate or deport any Venezuelan over 14 from what the U.S. considers an “an invasion.”

The law strips individuals accused of gang membership, like Reyes and E.M., of their right to challenge the accusation. The government maintains it can deport them without due process.

“My boyfriend is not defined by a tattoo or his birthplace. We want justice for him,” Palma said. “We are going to prove he is not a criminal.”

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