Once they're out of US hands, you can do with them whatever you want
In the long arc of human displacement, a new chapter is being written — one in which the world's most powerful nation has constructed a shadow geography of exile, using financial leverage and visa threats to scatter unwanted people across a continent they have never called home. The Trump administration, guided by a philosophy of removal above all else, has forged agreements with African governments to receive deportees who share no cultural, linguistic, or legal bond with those lands. What lawyers call 'chain refoulement' and what one State Department source simply named 'xenophobia' is now a functioning system — one that places hundreds of human beings in a legal void where courts cannot easily reach them and where the protections they were lawfully granted dissolve in transit.
- The US is offering African governments millions in aid and threatening visa bans to force them into accepting deportees who have no connection to those countries — including people with court-granted protections against removal.
- Deportees are disappearing into maximum-security prisons, secret military bases, and remote border zones across Eswatini, Ghana, the DRC, and South Sudan, held without charges and with almost no legal access.
- Lawyers are scrambling to locate clients they cannot find, filing challenges against a system deliberately designed to outpace judicial oversight and render legal protections meaningless before they can be enforced.
- Some deportees are being shuttled through multiple countries in a chain that ultimately delivers them to the very places they fled — a practice international law explicitly prohibits as refoulement.
- Despite court rulings blocking individual deportations, the administration is expanding the program, treating each legal setback as a logistical obstacle rather than a boundary, with no sign of retreat.
The Trump administration has built a coercive network across Africa, using visa bans as threats and millions in aid as rewards to pressure governments into accepting deportees who have no ties to those nations. The architecture was designed by Stephen Miller's Homeland Security Council and operates through a system of benchmarks: countries that refuse face economic and diplomatic punishment; those that comply receive tariff relief and restored visa access. Two-thirds of the nations hit by Trump's travel bans are African, and nearly half of all deportation deal partners are on the continent. Eswatini accepted 160 deportees for $5.1 million. Rwanda reportedly agreed to take 250 for $7.5 million.
Among those caught in this system is Pheap Rom, a 43-year-old Cambodian who served 15 years in an American prison and expected to be returned to Cambodia. Instead, he was flown to Eswatini and held without charge in a maximum-security facility, allowed outside for 15 minutes a day and one phone call per week. Roberto Mosquera, a Cuban-born Florida plumber and self-described Trump supporter who had rebuilt his life after a teenage conviction, was also sent to Eswatini — falsely labeled a murderer by the Department of Homeland Security. A year later, he remains detained without charge, visibly diminished on video calls with his family.
Many deportees held legal protections under the Convention Against Torture. The administration has reinterpreted these safeguards to mean they only bar return to a person's country of origin — allowing officials to send people anywhere else first, including countries that then expel them home. Khalid, a 23-year-old torture survivor granted protection by a US judge, was deported to Equatorial Guinea without documents. When that country refused him entry, he was placed on a plane to his home country, turned away at the border for lacking travel papers, and returned to Equatorial Guinea — a nation with no asylum system. He remains trapped.
In Ghana, deportees were held secretly on a remote military base. When lawyers began seeking their release, detainees — including Benjamin, a Nigerian green card holder married to an American citizen who had won torture protections — were driven to the Togolese border and abandoned without documents. In the DRC, aid organizations have pressured deportees to sign 'voluntary' repatriation forms, warning them they will be left to fend for themselves if they refuse.
Lawyers describe the entire structure as chain refoulement — the illegal practice of cycling people through countries to ultimately deliver them to places of persecution. The deals are kept secret, the numbers hidden, and the locations of detainees often unknown even to their own attorneys. Court rulings have blocked individual deportations, but the administration treats each ruling as a detour rather than a limit. One State Department source, searching for the ideology behind it all, found only a single word: xenophobia.
The Trump administration has developed a system of coercion aimed at African nations, using the threat of visa restrictions as leverage to force governments into accepting deportees who have no connection to their countries. The mechanism is straightforward: ban visas, offer millions in aid, and watch as desperate governments capitulate. What emerges is a shadow deportation network that operates across the continent, moving people through a series of countries in ways that circumvent American law and leave them stranded in what lawyers call a legal void.
Pheap Rom, a 43-year-old Cambodian, found himself locked in a maximum-security prison in Eswatini, a small southern African nation ruled by King Mswati III with an iron grip. Rom had served 15 years in an American prison for attempted murder, completed his sentence, and expected to be deported to Cambodia. Instead, in October he was flown to Eswatini and held without charge. "I didn't understand why I was being expelled to Africa since I'm Cambodian," he told journalists. He spent two months in the prison, allowed outside for only 15 minutes daily and permitted one phone call per week. Others have been sent to the Democratic Republic of Congo, Uganda, and South Sudan—some disappearing entirely from public record after their deportation flights landed.
The strategy originates from Stephen Miller, the Trump administration's hardline immigration adviser, and his Homeland Security Council. According to two former State Department officials, the administration weaponizes visa bans and financial incentives to strongarm African countries into accepting third-country deportees. Two-thirds of the 39 nations hit by Trump's full or partial travel bans are African, and nearly half of all countries that have struck deportation deals with Washington are on the continent. Eswatini agreed to accept 160 deportees in exchange for $5.1 million. Rwanda reportedly sealed a similar deal for 250 people worth $7.5 million. "It's like modern-day human trafficking, through official channels," said Tin Thanh Nguyen, a U.S.-based immigration lawyer.
Many of those deported had legal protections that should have shielded them from removal. Under the Convention Against Torture and other safeguards, hundreds of people had won the right to remain in the United States. But the Trump administration has reinterpreted these protections, arguing that because they only bar deportation to a person's country of origin, deportees can legally be sent anywhere else—including to countries that immediately send them back home. Khalid, a 23-year-old from East Africa who fled torture, was granted protection by a U.S. judge in 2024 and welcomed into the country. In January he was deported without documents to Equatorial Guinea, a nation regularly criticized for human rights abuses. When Equatorial Guinea refused to let him stay, he was put on a plane back to his home country, only to be turned around by border officials who said he lacked travel documents. He is now trapped in Equatorial Guinea, unable to leave and unable to request asylum because the country has no asylum system.
Roberto Mosquera, a Cuban-born plumber who had lived in Florida since childhood and was described by his daughter as a "super Trump supporter," lost his residency after serving time for shooting a man in the leg during a gang fight as a teenager. After his release, he rebuilt his life—married, had four daughters, and spoke out against gang violence. None of this prevented his deportation. ICE picked him up at his annual check-in and he disappeared for weeks. His family was told he had been sent to Cuba, but a photograph posted by a Department of Homeland Security spokeswoman revealed he had been sent to the maximum-security prison in Eswatini. The department falsely branded him a "murderer." A year later, he remains detained without charge. When his family saw him on a video call from the prison, he had lost hair and grown very thin.
The coercion operates through a system of metrics and incentives. Countries are given benchmarks to meet to avoid visa sanctions—some reasonable, like sharing data on known criminals, but others explicitly tied to accepting third-country deportees. One former State Department official said: "I don't know a single country that managed to move off the list because of stuff they did besides an agreement" to take deportees or asylum seekers. When Burkina Faso, ruled by a junta hostile to the West, refused to accept expelled Venezuelans, the U.S. abruptly stopped processing visas at its embassy. The foreign minister asked directly: "Is this blackmail?" His country was soon hit with a travel ban. Ghana, by contrast, agreed to take West African deportees, and Washington promptly reversed its visa restrictions and lifted a 15 percent tariff on its cocoa and agricultural exports.
Those deported to Ghana were held in secret at a remote military base without charges. When lawyers began seeking their release, deportees including a man named Benjamin—a Nigerian green card holder married to an American citizen who had won torture protections from a judge—were driven to the border and dumped in Togo without documents. Benjamin had served his prison sentence for fraud conspiracy and was entitled to legal protection. "I did my time for what I did," he told journalists. "But the Trump administration violated the judge's orders." In the Democratic Republic of Congo, the International Organization for Migration has pressured deportees to sign up for "voluntary" repatriation programs, telling them they will be left to fend for themselves if they refuse. Gabriela, a 30-year-old Colombian, said: "I didn't want to go to Congo. I'm scared."
Lawyers describe the situation as chain refoulement—the illegal practice of moving people through multiple countries to ultimately send them to places where they face persecution. These deportation deals have been shrouded in secrecy, with the actual numbers of people deported and the countries receiving them kept from public view. At least nine African governments have taken or agreed to take deportees. Lawyers often don't know where their clients are held. Nguyen knows only that his clients sent to South Sudan are at "an undisclosed location" guarded by soldiers. Despite legal challenges and court rulings against individual deportations, the Trump administration has shown no sign of backing down. A Salvadoran immigrant named Kilmar Abrego Garcia, who became a symbol of Trump's mass deportations after being mistakenly sent to El Salvador, has been threatened with deportation to Uganda, Eswatini, Ghana, and Liberia. Even when a U.S. judge ruled one woman's deportation to the Democratic Republic of Congo illegal because the Congolese government said it couldn't provide adequate medical care, the administration claimed it would be too dangerous to bring her back due to an Ebola outbreak. The system continues to expand, driven by what one State Department source described as "just xenophobia" with no real guiding philosophy beyond removing people from American soil.
Notable Quotes
I didn't understand why I was being expelled to Africa since I'm Cambodian— Pheap Rom, Cambodian deportee held in Eswatini
It's like modern-day human trafficking, through official channels— Tin Thanh Nguyen, U.S. immigration lawyer
I did my time for what I did. But the Trump administration violated the judge's orders.— Benjamin, Nigerian green card holder deported to Ghana
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why would African countries agree to this? What's in it for them?
Money, primarily. Eswatini got $5.1 million for 160 people. Rwanda got $7.5 million for 250. But it's also the threat—visa bans mean their citizens can't travel to the U.S., their businesses suffer, their economy feels it. It's coercion dressed up as aid.
But these people have no connection to these countries. How is that legal?
It isn't, according to lawyers. It violates international law on refoulement—the principle that you can't send someone to a place where they'll face persecution. But the Trump administration has reinterpreted the law. They say torture protections only bar deportation to your home country, not to third countries. So they exploit that gap.
What happens to someone like Khalid, stuck in Equatorial Guinea?
He's in a legal black hole. He can't leave because he has no documents. He can't request asylum because Equatorial Guinea has no asylum system. He can't go home because border officials turned him around. He's trapped, and the U.S. has washed its hands of him.
Is there any oversight? Any way to challenge this?
Lawyers are fighting individual cases, and some judges have ruled against specific deportations. But the administration ignores those rulings. They claim it's too dangerous to bring people back. They keep expanding the program. There's no real accountability mechanism.
What about someone like Roberto Mosquera—an American resident for decades?
He's been in the U.S. since childhood, rebuilt his life after prison, had a family. None of that mattered. ICE picked him up at a routine check-in and he disappeared. His family found out he was in a notorious prison in Eswatini through a government photo. He's been held without charge for a year.
Why Eswatini? Why that prison specifically?
It's ruled by an absolute monarch who uses it to silence critics and activists. It's known for repression. That's exactly why it's useful to the U.S.—there's minimal oversight, minimal legal recourse, minimal international attention. It's a place where people can disappear.