The case has generated widespread national outrage. For Hernández, a 31-year-old makeup artist and hairdresser, that meant being deported from the United States to an ultra-max security prison in El Salvador. In August 2023, Hernández was able to confidently cross the southern border to make his pre-scheduled asylum appointment in San Diego. U.S. immigration agents seized him as soon as he landed. His deportation is part of a growing trend of deporting Venezuelans to El Salvador. Not surprisingly, this trend has drawn a wave of justification critics.
Hernández’s ordeal lasted over six months in U.S. custody prior to his deportation. His case is illustrative of the unconstitutional practices permeating the Trump administration’s mass deportation campaign. It disproportionately targeted minorities specifically because of their perceived ties to organized crime. In Hernández’s situation, his tattoos—described as crowns—were interpreted by authorities as evidence of his association with the Tren de Aragua, Venezuela’s most notorious gang. Despite these claims, Hernández’s family and friends strongly refute that he had any ties to organized crime.
The response from Hernández’s home community in Táchira, the western state where he was raised, has been powerful. They continue to rally around him in support even with the growing allegations. His mother, Alexis Dolores Romero de Hernández, expressed her anguish over her son’s detention, stating, “Let my son go. Review his case file. He is not a gang member.” In her case, such sentiments have now been echoed by thousands of supporters who “believe tattoos shouldn’t decide your destiny.”
Hernández’s attachment to his native Capacho comes from a well spring of personal history. For more than two decades, he’s helped lead his town’s joyful Three Kings Day parades, a pillar of new local cultural pride and activism. Friends like Krisbel Vásquez have come forward to defend him, asserting, “I’ve known him all my life. He doesn’t bother anyone.” As is often the case with matters of injustice, many in the community feel passionately for Hernández. To them, he is a victim of a broken immigration system, not a criminal.
Melissa Shepard, Hernández’s attorney, expressed grave concerns over the precedent that Hernandez’s deportation would set. “I know the government tries to use the language that he was ‘removed’ [but] … he has absolutely been disappeared,” she stated. Shepard called the event traumatic and in many ways representative of a more widespread systemic problem that has been ongoing for vulnerable populations. The point that this administration has taken someone already very vulnerable and plunged them into something so scary has just been awful. “And that’s what we fear, if it can happen to him, then it can happen to anybody,” she continued.
The response from authorities has been mixed. El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele referred to the deportations as “another step in the fight against terrorism and organized crime,” framing the actions within a broader narrative of national security. This won’t cut the mustard, as a slew of critics have pointed out, when it comes to the unique facts of specific cases like Hernández’s.
As calls for justice grow louder, Hernández’s family and friends are appealing directly to the presidents of both the U.S. and El Salvador for intervention. This experience has proved to be a deep emotional burden. His mother has lost sleep worrying about the impact all this has taken on him—and on their family as a whole. “Everyone has these crowns, many people. That doesn’t mean they’re involved in the Tren de Aragua … He’s never had problems with the law,” she emphasized.
The case has drawn the interest of numerous media outlets and human rights organizations. They are leading the charge to reconsider the criteria that label people as threats simply for the way they look or where they come from. The backlash provoked by Hernández’s deportation raises profound questions about the U.S. government’s treatment of asylum seekers and immigrants. This especially applies to Venezuelans, who are leaving a humanitarian crisis like no other seen in this hemisphere.
Community members from Capacho are voicing their outrage through social media and local protests, demanding that authorities reconsider Hernández’s status and release him from prison. Miguel Chacón, a local resident, highlighted Hernández’s importance to their community: “We’re talking about someone who has been part of Capacho’s Three Kings Day celebrations for 23 years.” These deep community connections highlight how personal this crisis is for so many who knew him intimately.
As this situation unfolds, it raises critical questions about immigration policies and their implications for individuals seeking safety and a new life in the United States. Hernández’s case serves as a poignant reminder of the often harsh realities faced by those fleeing violence and instability in their home countries.