Fear and heartbreak in Venezuelan grandparents’ ‘self-deportation’ from the US

Fear and heartbreak in Venezuelan grandparents’ ‘self-deportation’ from the US The couple returned to their country, driven by fear of the Trump administration’s immigration terror machine — an apparatus that boasts about a rise in voluntary departures, yet offers no evidence to back its claims They always followed the rules. And now the rules have forced them to make a heartbreaking decision. Patricia, 63, and Javier González, 66 — until recently residents of Utah under temporary humanitarian parole — “self-deported” to Venezuela just two months after Donald Trump took office.

T he wave of hostility toward migrants unleashed by the new U.S. administration from day one left this pair of grandparents — who are using pseudonyms for their safety and that of their family — in a legal limbo.



They were suddenly exposed to arrest by immigration agents, accused of being in the country illegally, and at risk of deportation. Gripped by fear of becoming entangled in the Trump administration’s expanding immigration crackdown , they left behind their 42-year-old daughter, Jennifer (also a pseudonym), and three grandchildren — the youngest a newborn — to return to the country they had fled four years earlier. The so-called “self-deportation” Trump has pushed, targeting both undocumented migrants and those with temporary permits, shifts the burden of removal onto the migrants themselves.

The logic is simple: create an environment so hostile — socially and administratively — that people choose to leave on their own, rather than face a humiliating and dehumanizing deportation process. This strategy saves the government the cost and effort of locating, detaining, and removing individuals. The administration has praised the results, claiming — without providing figures or evidence — that the number of self-deportations is enormous.

The government has promoted the CBP Home app as the tool for “self-deportations,” but migrants and specialized immigration lawyers see no benefit in using it. On the contrary, they see risks in providing information that could later be used against migrants — even preventing them from returning to the United States in the future: from three to 10 years, according to the law, and in some cases, even permanently. To avoid that outcome, the González grandparents bought a pair of plane tickets and returned to Venezuela.

They no longer have close family in Venezuela, as their other two sons have been living in Chile for several years. Moreover, for reasons they prefer not to disclose — out of caution — they are at risk of political persecution. As a result, they’ve chosen to keep a low profile and did not return to their former home in Maracaibo, but instead settled in another city in the center of the country.

There, it’s also easier to obtain medication for Patricia’s diabetes, and a few extended family members provide the semblance of a support network. Returning has been a process of relearning, they say during a video call. “Everything changes — the physical spaces, the cultural issues, the government issues.

So coming back here, after living within a stable organizational structure, is an emotional shock. But we’re adjusting to the situation, even if we don’t yet know how long we’ll be back in the country, because if the situation in North America is resolved, we’ll most likely return. Not so much to leave Venezuela, but to support [Jennifer],” Javier says with a stubborn hope, because being with his grandchildren again — especially the one who isn’t even a month old — means everything.

But being in the United States without legal papers is not, and never was, an option. They arrived in early 2023 after spending two years in Chile. Their daughter, Jennifer — who has been in the U.

S. since 2019 under political asylum — sponsored them just before giving birth to her second child under a special Biden-era program that made it easier for Venezuelans to receive humanitarian parole , a temporary permit to live and work in the U.S.

(the continuation of which is now being litigated in court). It felt like a miracle for the family. And when the two-year parole was nearing its end, Patricia and Javier began the process for Temporary Protected Status (TPS), which would have extended their stay for at least two more years.

Then Trump returned to the White House and began signing executive orders — one of which canceled the issuance of new TPS permits. Suddenly, Patricia and Javier found themselves in uncharted legal territory: in theory, the receipt of their application confirmed their legal status, but if that process was never going to be completed, the situation was not so clear. They weren’t undocumented immigrants because they had entered the U.

S. legally through an official port of entry. But they no longer had valid documentation to prove their status.

Nor were they, on paper, deportable, since they had never committed a crime. However, if they were pulled over while driving, their driver’s licenses would be considered invalid, because their immigration documents were no longer valid either. In that scenario, they would be guilty of a civil offense — driving without a license — which, under the Laken Riley Act passed during Trump’s first week back in office, has become sufficient grounds for deportation.

To avoid that risk, they shut themselves in at home. The economist and the university sociology professor left their jobs in sales and stopped attending their English classes. Within the four walls of their small home, as the media flooded with news of sweeping executive orders, inflammatory speeches, immigration raids, and nightmarish arrests — and especially deportations — the grandparents lived in a constant state of fear.

Patricia’s blood sugar levels skyrocketed from stress. Her diabetes worsened. It became clear they couldn’t continue like this — they had to do something.

They were well-informed, but filled with suspicion. The migrant registry pushed by Trump seemed like a trap — an invitation to turn themselves in to the authorities. The same went for the CBP Home app, a rebranded version of CBP One, the application originally launched by Biden to streamline asylum requests, which the new administration had supposedly turned into the most high-tech method of “self-deportation.

” They felt cornered. After consulting with immigration lawyers — who feared that the reentry ban could be triggered by the procedures promoted by the new administration, whether through an application or a voluntary signature — they decided it was best to return to Venezuela of their own accord, to avoid tarnishing their record and keep the door open for a possible return. In late March, under Trump’s rhetoric, they became two of the supposedly many “self-deportations” the administration boasts about, though it has provided no figures.

“We would have liked to continue with the process we had hoped was underway, to have had more time. But we are people of faith, respectful of the law and above all of the authorities,” says Patricia, her voice steady just as her faint smile fades and her eyes begin to well up with tears. “We support our daughter.

We didn’t want to be a burden — like any human being who wants to stand on their own and be with family. Because she’s our daughter, our only daughter, she needed us. As a mother, you know when your child needs you,” she adds, now with a mix of desperation and a flicker of anger.

She points out that beyond helping around the house, they paid their taxes and were no threat to anyone — despite the way all Venezuelans are painted as criminals or gang members . These days, feelings flicker and blur across the distance that separates what had become the family home in Utah from Patricia and Javier’s landing place in Venezuela. In the U.

S., Jennifer — now with a newborn and a two-year-old — hasn’t stopped working as a legal assistant. The whole family, including her in-laws, pitches in with the house and the kids, but the absence of her parents is deeply felt.

Her oldest child no longer has to practice his Spanish, and Jennifer worries he’ll lose it in the slow drift of assimilation. But, despite everything, she must hold it together. Thousands of miles to the south, Patricia and Javier navigate the currents of nostalgia and helplessness, clinging to their faith — which helps them digest what life has dealt them.

They are strong, doing their best to support themselves without leaning too heavily on the money their daughter might send, slowly adjusting to their new reality. But just a few words into sharing their story, the pain and anger resurface — the raw ache of knowing they were driven out by the fear sparked by the deliberate cruelty of Donald Trump’s administration. Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition Tu suscripción se está usando en otro dispositivo ¿Quieres añadir otro usuario a tu suscripción? Si continúas leyendo en este dispositivo, no se podrá leer en el otro.

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