The drama of the end of parole: ‘You flee your country out of fear and now you’re even more afraid in the US’

Ever since the Trump administration announced its plan to revoke the legal status of more than 530,000 people who entered the United States through the humanitarian parole program, Gabriela has been avoiding going outside. Before that, she had three jobs: as an assistant teacher at an elementary school, as a waitress at a taco restaurant, and as a receptionist at a furniture store in the small town in Tennessee where she lives. These days she only steps outside to go to school, which is two minutes from her house. And she ventures out to Walmart on weekends, to buy the basics.

Although she is in the U.S. legally, she has put her life on hold while she waits to complete the year and one day in the country to apply for permanent residency under the Cuban Adjustment Act. When she does, even if the card takes a while to arrive, she will go back to her routine with more confidence. An open process “in a way protects me from being deported,” she explains. In the meantime, she plans to remain locked up.

“I live in an area where immigrants are viewed in a somewhat complicated way. The Ku Klux Klan was founded very close to here, and it has historically been one of the most racist places in the United States. So the old folks in particular tend to be quite closed off to foreigners,” says Gabriela (not her real name).

Gabriela is 25 years old, she once got a speeding ticket, and she is facing a court case because she ran a stop sign and crashed into a car. No one was injured, but the other driver hired lawyers. That happened months ago, when Gabriela was still learning how to drive. These are minor offenses, but she believes they are enough to make her feel unsafe and at risk of deportation.

Her humanitarian parole, with which she flew from Havana to Nashville ten months ago, gave her the benefit of applying for a Social Security number, a work permit, and legal residence for two years. She came to the U.S. to work so that her mother, who stayed behind in Cuba, would not have to. And also to help her sister, a single mother of two who helped her by sponsoring her parole, a program implemented by the Biden Administration in October 2022 for people from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela.

Gabriela was saving up to open a hair salon. But all that took a backseat. “If I lose my legal status, I will have to be creative, like everyone else, and find good legal advice. If things get too complicated, I will have to leave. But as long as it is feasible to stay here, I will stay.”

“Repression, authoritarianism, racism and discrimination”

Leandro, a Venezuelan national, had to wait six months for the parole that his sister sponsored to be approved, and then he had to cross the border into Colombia because there are no direct flights from Venezuela to the United States. He thought that was going to be the only border he would ever cross in his life. In September 2023, he arrived at Houston airport and settled in that Texas city.

He started out in an insurance company, but quickly found a position at Tesla as a bilingual technical support worker, and things started to go well for him. He had a good salary and the whole family was together. He had been the last to leave Caracas, where he worked as a lawyer for a human rights non-profit. “Mobilizing people for certain causes, making public requests in the media and all those things ultimately make you a direct target of the [Venezuelan] government,” he says. “I thought the most prudent thing to do was to leave because I didn’t see a future in the situation.”

Since his parole expires in seven months, Leandro applied for political asylum shortly before Trump took office. He is not in danger of being deported, but he cannot apply for the work permit granted by asylum because the 150 days required for doing so have not yet elapsed. So if the new administration revokes his benefits, he will be left without a job. “I am happy with the job I have. I can use my intellect, I have opportunities for growth and all those other things that I felt were lost in Venezuela. In two years here I have achieved things, but now I feel that they are hanging by a thread,” he explains.

At 30, Leandro is not sure if he will end up moving to another place or what will happen with his life. In many ways, it does not depend on him, but on the decisions that Trump and his Cabinet have been making since January 20. “I thought that the United States was an example of a developed country, but right now there is a sense of repression, authoritarianism, racism and discrimination. I never imagined using those adjectives to describe this country, but I am using them because that’s the way it is,” he says.

He has thought about leaving for Spain. Returning to Venezuela would be suicide. But he doesn’t want to go anywhere, he considers it would be forced migration. Sometimes he feels like joining the demonstrations that are taking place throughout the nation in favor of migrant rights. But he fears that he will be detained, deported or charged with crimes that will affect his asylum process. “Perhaps by trying to exercise your right here you can get into bigger trouble. So even in that I feel like I’m back in Venezuela, where people didn’t go out to protest for fear of what could happen. You flee your country out of fear and now you’re even more afraid.”

Kevin met his husband at a karaoke bar and they married quickly, six months ago. The husband is a U.S. citizen and Kevin could apply for residency as a spouse through the Immigration and Nationality Act, but he has not started the process because he does not have the money. “With a private lawyer it costs me up to $9,000,” he says. So, while he finishes saving up, his only protection in the country is the parole he entered with.

He is 38 years old and works as a community promoter in a support program for vulnerable populations in Austin, Texas. In Nicaragua, where he was born, he studied psychology with a specialty in psychotherapy. But he fled as soon as he had the opportunity to have a cousin sponsor his status. “I decided to leave because of the political persecution against those who do not think like the dictatorship. I was a bit of an activist. I was not so showy, but I was against it,” he says.

He also did it because of how badly everyone treated him in Nicaragua because of his sexual orientation. Once, he says, his arm was broken from receiving so many blows. “Pig,” they shouted at him. But as soon as he set foot in Austin, in March 2023, he joined a choir and a Pride Queer theater group and signed up as a volunteer at an LGBTQ+ organization. “It was a relief to be here and stop feeling so discriminated against.”

But now he is as afraid of being sent back to Nicaragua as he is of being in the United States. “There is pressure on us, especially Latinos. If one of these days they take away our status, I know that at any moment they can come and deport me, because when you have humanitarian parole, you have to notify when you change your address, your number, everything. That makes me very anxious.”

Many migrants apply for political asylum because it gives them the chance to apply for a work permit and stay legally in the country while their case is being processed. It is often a fairly long process, sometimes years long, but it allows people to buy time. Kevin could prove his case, but he prefers the marriage option.

“I’m scared to even see a patrol car go by. Trump wants to declare parole illegal, so even if you’re legal, it gives them an excuse to persecute you. If they send me back to Nicaragua and they find out that I posted something against the government on social media, they either won’t let me in or they’ll put me in jail.”

Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition