I can be reborn, heal my mental health, find the happiness they took away
A Venezuelan hairstylist who fled persecution at home, only to be swept into an American deportation policy that sent him to one of the world's most feared prisons without evidence or due process, has now arrived in Spain seeking asylum — a third country, a third beginning. Andry José Hernández's journey from Caracas to El Salvador's Cecot prison to southern Spain traces the arc of a man caught between governments that either targeted him or failed him. His story raises enduring questions about the obligations of powerful states toward the vulnerable, and about what justice means when the machinery of law is used to foreclose the very possibility of innocence being heard.
- Hernández was deported to a brutal mega-prison based on nothing more than tattoos bearing his parents' names, with no criminal record and no meaningful hearing — a due process violation a federal judge later confirmed.
- Months of psychological abuse, physical violence, and sexual assault inside Cecot left wounds that still surface involuntarily, triggered by something as ordinary as a hand on his shoulder.
- Even after a prisoner swap returned him to Venezuela, the government came knocking at his door, signaling that his ordeal had made him a marked man in his own homeland as well.
- A federal court ordered his return to the US for due process, but appeals courts blocked any investigation into whether the Trump administration defied that ruling, leaving him with no legal path to clear his name.
- Spain, with its open asylum policies and strong LGBTQ+ protections, has become his refuge — cautiously hopeful, rebuilding slowly, but carrying accusations he has never been permitted to formally refute.
Andry José Hernández Romero is a 33-year-old Venezuelan hairstylist and makeup artist who left his country fleeing persecution as a gay man. In March 2025, the Trump administration invoked an 18th-century wartime law to deport him and over a hundred other Venezuelan men to El Salvador's Cecot prison — a facility built for alleged terrorists. The basis for his inclusion: tattoos above his parents' names. He had no criminal record. He had explained his circumstances to immigration officials. None of it was considered.
The images from Cecot — men with shaved heads, lined up on concrete, visibly terrified — circulated worldwide. Hernández spent months in cages, cut off from his family, while human rights investigators documented abuse that included sexual violence. A federal judge ruled the deportations unlawful and ordered the men returned. The administration did not comply, and an appeals court later blocked any inquiry into whether that defiance was deliberate.
Released through a prisoner swap, Hernández returned to Venezuela and promised his family he would never leave again. But within weeks, officials from the vice-president's office came looking for him. He hid. The message was unmistakable. When political upheaval brought new leadership to Caracas, he made his decision and flew to Spain in early February 2026.
Spain has become a destination of choice for Venezuelans — more than 25,000 sought asylum there in just the first four months of 2026. Speaking by video call from the south of the country, Hernández described feeling safe for the first time in over a year, hoping to heal, to work again as a makeup artist, and to reclaim a happiness that was taken from him.
The trauma, however, has not released him. A tap on the shoulder still sends his mind back to Cecot. His attorney, who has spent nearly two decades in asylum law, said she had never before encountered a case where it was genuinely unsafe for a client to seek protection in the United States. Hernández has chosen not to return to fight his case there — not out of bitterness, he says, but because he cannot trust that his freedom would be preserved. For now, Spain is the only place offering him both safety and the possibility of a future.
Andry José Hernández Romero is a 33-year-old hairstylist and makeup artist who left Venezuela seeking refuge from persecution—first as a gay man in a hostile country, then as a migrant caught in the machinery of American deportation policy. In March 2025, the Trump administration used a law from 1798 to expel him and 136 other Venezuelan men to El Salvador's Cecot prison, a sprawling facility designed to hold alleged terrorists. Hernández was accused of gang membership based on tattoos above his parents' names. He had no criminal record. He had explained to immigration officials why he fled Venezuela. None of it mattered.
The images that emerged from Cecot shocked the world: 253 bewildered men having their heads shaved, lined up on concrete with bowed heads, their terror visible. Hernández and the others were held in cages without communication to their families for months. Human rights investigators documented psychological abuse, physical violence, and sexual assault. A federal judge, James Boasberg, ruled the deportations violated due process and ordered the men returned. The Trump administration did not comply. An appeals court later blocked Boasberg from investigating whether the administration had knowingly defied his order.
After a prisoner swap last summer, Hernández was released and returned to Venezuela. His family welcomed him home. He promised them he would never leave again. But within weeks, the vice-president's office came to his door looking for him. He hid. The message was clear: he was being watched, and his refusal to cooperate with the government had marked him as a problem. When Delcy Rodríguez was sworn in as acting president of Venezuela following the capture of Nicolás Maduro by US military forces, Hernández made his decision. He could not stay.
In early February 2026, he flew to Spain. Venezuelans do not need a visa to enter the country, and those fleeing persecution can request asylum. Spain has become a haven for Venezuelan migrants—more than 25,000 sought asylum there in the first four months of 2026 alone, making Venezuelans the largest group requesting international protection. The Spanish government has moved in the opposite direction from the US and much of Europe, announcing plans to grant legal status to roughly 500,000 migrant workers, most from Latin America.
Speaking by video call from southern Spain, Hernández expressed cautious optimism. "I can say I feel safe here, this is a place where I can be reborn, heal my mental health, let people know about my abilities as a makeup artist and find the happiness they took away from me more than a year ago," he said in Spanish. His first asylum hearing was scheduled for late May. He has relatives in Spain. He has heard the country respects LGBTQ+ rights and does not tolerate discrimination.
Yet the trauma remains. When someone taps him on the shoulder, his mind returns to Cecot. He still wants to clear his name—to have his day in court, to refute the baseless accusations. But there is no clear path forward in the United States. His attorney, Lindsay Toczylowski of the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, said she had never in nearly two decades of representing asylum seekers encountered a situation where it was unsafe for a client to seek protection in America. "From a moral perspective, he was accused with absolutely no evidence of being part of something that he has never had anything to do with," she said. "No one should be accused of something like that without any option to refute the allegations."
Hernández has chosen not to return to the US to fight his case. He does not trust that he will keep his freedom if he does. "I don't hold a grudge against the US," he said. "I can't judge an entire country based on the actions of a group of people like Donald Trump or Kristi Noem, but entering the US at this time doesn't guarantee I will keep my freedom and that is why I will continue to fight my case from Spain." He is rebuilding his life in a third country, in a third language, carrying the weight of accusations he cannot answer and trauma he cannot fully escape. For now, Spain is the only place that has offered him both safety and the possibility of a future.
Citações Notáveis
I don't hold a grudge against the US, but entering the US at this time doesn't guarantee I will keep my freedom and that is why I will continue to fight my case from Spain.— Andry José Hernández Romero
He was accused with absolutely no evidence of being part of something that he has never had anything to do with. No one should be accused of something like that without any option to refute the allegations.— Lindsay Toczylowski, Immigrant Defenders Law Center
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did he leave Venezuela the first time, before any of this happened?
He was being persecuted as a gay man in a country that didn't tolerate that. He came to the US thinking it would be safer, that he could build a life. He was wrong.
And the gang tattoo—was that actually a gang tattoo?
No. It was two crown tattoos above his parents' names. A memorial, essentially. But the government needed a reason to deport him, and that was convenient enough.
So he was sent to Cecot, held for months, then released. Why didn't he just stay in Venezuela after that?
Because the government came looking for him. He refused a job offer from the vice-president's office, and that refusal made him a target. He realized he was going to be surveilled, possibly worse. He had just escaped one nightmare and walked straight into another.
Why Spain, specifically?
Venezuelans don't need a visa. He has family there. And Spain is actually taking in migrants—half a million of them, legally. It's one of the few countries moving the opposite direction from everyone else.
Can he ever go back to the US to clear his name?
His lawyer says it's important that he does, legally speaking. But he doesn't trust that he'll be safe if he returns. The appeals court blocked the investigation into whether the Trump administration defied the judge's order. There's no clear path forward. So he's fighting his case from Spain instead, from a distance, because that's the only way he can fight it and stay alive.
Does he think he'll ever be safe?
He says he feels safe in Spain. But he's still traumatized—when someone touches his shoulder, his mind goes back to the prison. Safety is relative now. It's not about being completely free of fear. It's about being in a place where the government isn't hunting you.