Andry Hernández’s life after leaving Bukele’s terror prison: ‘Our bodies are free, but our minds are still there’

On Monday, August 18, Andry Hernández Romero completed one month of freedom after being detained for four months at the Terrorist Confinement Center (Cecot) in El Salvador. U.S. immigration authorities handcuffed him and deported him in mid-March under the Alien Enemies Act, accusing him of being a member of the Tren de Aragua criminal gang. His case immediately gained visibility thanks to the efforts of his family and friends, who constantly shared evidence (such as his 12 years dedicated to professional makeup and his artistic activities) that distanced him from any illicit activity. His deportation — and that of more than 200 of his compatriots with no criminal records — also highlighted how the Trump administration was capable of stripping hundreds of foreigners of their rights in order to further its anti-immigrant crusade.

“Our lives have changed completely, in every way. Our bodies are free today, but our minds are still there. We still don’t understand many things, we still don’t remember many things,” Hernández Romero said in a video call with EL PAÍS.

The 32-year-old’s return to the town of Capacho, in the Venezuelan Andes, became an event among his neighbors, friends, and family, who welcomed him with boiled Tachira stew and cake. “I was shocked to see his fingernails. They were like a homeless person’s. He’s a man who takes great care of his personal image... It hurt me to see him so emaciated,” says his best friend, Reina Cárdenas, who founded the Committee in Defense of Tachira Residents Deported and Sent to El Salvador, along with other relatives of detainees.

The journey that took him to the United States, crossing the Darién jungle and the whole of Central America into Mexico, ended in fruitlessness. “I never set foot on a street in that country,” says Hernández Romero. On August 24, 2024, he showed up for a scheduled interview using the CBP One application at the San Ysidro border crossing in San Diego, California. He passed a preliminary evaluation, and officials determined he had a well-founded fear of being persecuted if he returned home. However, during a physical examination, an agent saw his tattoos and decided to transfer him to the Otay Mesa Detention Center in the same city. “I’ve had my tattoos for eight years, two crowns on my wrists with the words ‘dad’ and ‘mom,’ in honor of my parents and the Three Kings Day celebration in my town, which I have participated in for 26 years. I never thought they would mistake me for a gang member,” he explains. On the points system the Department of Homeland Security uses to classify criminals based on their appearance, he received a five and an orange jumpsuit.

He spent nearly seven months in pretrial detention, facing deportation. His attorneys, Lindsay Toczylowski and Paulina Reyes of the Immigrant Defenders Law Center, learned of his case and quickly took on his defense, winning his asylum case in court (which he claimed based on persecution for his sexual orientation and political beliefs and which was denied by a California judge in late May). However, in March of this year, just before a court hearing that would determine his situation, Hernández Romero was transferred to Nuevo Laredo, Texas, and deported to El Salvador.

His reception at President Nayib Bukele’s maximum-security prison was marked by humiliation: his hair was shaved against his will. “If it was horrible for everyone else that they did it, imagine what it meant for a stylist like me to see myself kneeling down and completely bald,” he laments. “I’m not a gang member. I’m gay. I’m a stylist,” were the words he uttered at the time; a statement that would bring harsh consequences during his time in prison.

“252 strangers entered, 252 brothers left”

Hernández Romero shared a cell with 19 other inmates at the Cecot. In an environment dominated by heterosexual men, where machismo and discrimination are part of the group dynamic, the young makeup artist drew a line that allowed him to survive behind bars. “I’m one of those people who thinks there’s a space for everything. One to be serious, one to be gay, one to joke around. From the moment I set foot in El Salvador, I told the others: ‘You respect me and I respect you. My ID says male, so I behave like a man.’ Although sometimes I threw in a joke to make us laugh and lighten the load of what we were going through [...] The truth is that 252 of us went in as strangers and 252 of us came out as brothers,” he says.

The camaraderie and respect among the detainees grew even stronger after Hernández Romero experienced the most devastating incident since his deportation. “I was sexually abused at the Cecot. It happened a month and a half after my arrival. It has been very difficult to relive this whole event, but as the mental health specialists treating me tell me, you have to relive it to heal and forget,” he confesses. He wasn’t the only homosexual in the group, but he was the only one who openly expressed it. “It was rumored that there were four other gay people, but they kept it to themselves,” he adds.

The guards, who remain masked at all times during their duties, made him their target. “Marry me, I’ll give you the papers so you can become a Salvadoran woman,” “I’m going to get you pregnant,” “faggots are accepted here,” “Take birth control pills so you don’t get pregnant,” were just some of the lewd comments he received from the moment he entered the prison. His fellow inmates began to notice the situation and protect him accordingly, but none could prevent what happened next. “The United States government talks about the crimes foreigners commit against its citizens, but remains silent when they are the ones committing or allowing crimes against others,” protests the Venezuelan, who is the main plaintiff in a lawsuit filed by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) against the Trump administration over the use of racial profiling in the deportations of immigrants, led by Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem.

Noem’s visit to the Cecot at the end of March, after the Venezuelans’ arrival, gave Hernández Romero the opportunity to speak out against the harassment and mistreatment he was being subjected to. “I was in cell nine and couldn’t see her because she only made it to cell five. She couldn’t continue because we started shouting, ‘Freedom, freedom!’ and signaling for international help,” he recalls.

Hernández Romero returned to Venezuela and has no plans to emigrate a second time. Being with his family is his top priority these days, although he hopes to reunite with his partner, a U.S. citizen living in Pennsylvania, with whom he was in constant communication during his detention in California. “We still talk daily. He’s a psychologist and has supported me throughout this process, but we don’t know when or where we’ll see each other again,” he says.

His return home also meant starting almost from scratch. He arrived without clothes, without a cell phone, and without much of the work material he had. He gave it away before leaving. His friend Reina Cárdenas, who had been one of the recipients of the gift, kept some of the makeup and returned it to him so he could resume his craft.

“I plan to open my own beauty salon, although I don’t know when that will happen because opening a business in my country is still an uphill battle. But what I want most is to clear my name. I’m not a terrorist. I’m a man who has worked in radio, television, advertising, and theater. I have nothing to do with gangs or crimes of any kind,” he says.

Communication with their fellow prisoners at the Cecot hasn’t diminished with their return to their homeland. The 11 released Cecot prisoners who live in Táchira State and the surrounding area started a WhatsApp group to support each other during the difficult readjustment process they’ve endured. “Sometimes we laugh about the things that happened to us to keep from feeling bad, but there are times when loneliness takes over and it’s hard to remember,” he notes. They also plan to take a trip with their families in the coming months.

For now, last Friday, August 22, in the town of Lobatera, the first reunion took place. Hernández Romero attended the wedding of his fellow former inmate Carlos Uzcátegui and Gabriela Mora. The wedding was a promise fulfilled between the couple after months marked by distance and the fight for the freedom of those deported to El Salvador. “I worked hard with Andry’s family and those of other countrymen for his release, and just as they created very strong bonds, so did the families. It’s an honor for me to have him do my hair and makeup on my wedding day,” Mora told EL PAÍS the night before the ceremony.

At his side, Uzcátegui recalls a story. “The night before we were released, I couldn’t sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night, and Andry, who was in the cell across from me, said: ‘Don’t worry, we’re leaving tomorrow.’ And I didn’t believe him. So many things had happened that I had lost faith. This wedding is proof that hell is over, but a part of us remains inside. That’s the battle we’re facing,” he says. Both are trying to turn the hardest page of their lives.

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