Trump administration deports gay makeup artist to prison in El Salvador

In March 2025, the Trump administration’s aggressive immigration policies took a devastating turn, thrusting a 31-year-old gay Venezuelan makeup artist, Andry José Hernandez Romero, into the spotlight of a humanitarian crisis. Deported to El Salvador’s notorious CECOT prison—a facility dubbed the "Center for the Confinement of Terrorism"—Hernandez’s story is not just a single tragedy but a glaring symbol of the broader consequences of unchecked power and flawed deportation practices. This blog dives into the details of his case, the conditions of CECOT, and the urgent call for reform, all while weaving a narrative that demands your attention and empathy.

The Human Behind the Headlines

Andry Hernandez Romero wasn’t just another name on a deportation list. He was a vibrant soul, a makeup artist, and a hairstylist who fled Venezuela seeking asylum in the United States. Why? Because his homeland persecuted him for his sexual orientation and political views. In the U.S., he was building a life, chasing safety, and pursuing his passion—until March 13, 2025, when he was swept up in a mass deportation flight carrying 238 men, many labeled as gang members without due process. Hernandez, with no criminal record in the U.S. or Venezuela, found himself shackled and shipped to a Salvadoran mega-prison, a place where hope goes to die.

Imagine this: one day, you’re blending eyeshadow palettes, dreaming of your next big break; the next, you’re in a cell with 80 others, locked away for 23.5 hours a day, your cries for your mother echoing off concrete walls. That’s the reality Hernandez faced, as reported by photojournalist Philip Holsinger, who documented the abuse of deportees. Hernandez’s story isn’t just heartbreaking—it’s a wake-up call.

The CECOT Nightmare

El Salvador’s CECOT prison is no ordinary facility. Built to house alleged gang members and terrorists, it’s a fortress of despair. Cells cram dozens of inmates into spaces meant for far fewer, with minimal access to light, air, or basic human dignity. Reports describe brutal conditions: prisoners are beaten, starved, and denied medical care. For a gay man like Hernandez, the risks are even higher—homophobia runs rampant in such environments, making him a target for violence and discrimination.

The Trump administration’s deal with El Salvador, which included $6 million to detain deportees, raises chilling questions. Why send someone with no criminal history to a place like this? The answer lies in a flawed system that prioritizes speed over justice. Hernandez was accused of ties to the Tren de Aragua gang, a claim based on his tattoos—crowns that his attorney, Paulina Reyes, says represent a cultural festival in his hometown, not gang affiliation. Yet, a disgraced former Milwaukee cop turned ICE contractor, Charles Cross, signed off on his deportation, sealing his fate without a hearing.

The Policy Behind the Pain

The deportation of Hernandez and others stems from the Trump administration’s use of the Alien Enemies Act of 1798, a wartime law dusted off to bypass due process. On March 15, 2025, three high-profile flights carried over 200 men to El Salvador, many—like Hernandez—lacking criminal records. The administration’s narrative painted them as “terrorists” and “gang members,” but evidence is thin. A 60 Minutes investigation revealed that 75% of the 238 deportees had no known criminal history, exposing the recklessness of these actions.

This isn’t just about one man—it’s about a system that dehumanizes. The Supreme Court’s recent ruling to “facilitate” the return of another deportee, Kilmar Abrego Garcia, who was also sent to CECOT in error, shows cracks in the policy. Yet, Hernandez remains trapped, his asylum hearing denied, his family in anguish. The administration’s refusal to act swiftly, despite court orders, speaks volumes about its priorities.

Why This Matters to You

You might be reading this from the comfort of your home, thinking, “This doesn’t affect me.” But it does. When a government can “disappear” someone without evidence, it erodes the very freedoms we all cherish. Hernandez’s story is a stark reminder that justice isn’t guaranteed—it’s fought for. His deportation isn’t just a policy failure; it’s a moral one, challenging us to ask: What kind of world do we want to live in?

The conditions at CECOT, the misuse of power, and the targeting of vulnerable groups like LGBTQ+ individuals should spark outrage. If we stay silent, we risk normalizing this cruelty. Hernandez’s parents haven’t heard from him since he was taken to CECOT. Can you imagine the agony of that silence?

A Call to Action

The fight for Hernandez’s return is ongoing, led by groups like the Immigrant Defenders Law Center. But they need our voices. Here’s how you can help:

Spread Awareness: Share this blog, talk about Hernandez’s story, and amplify the truth on social media. Use hashtags like #JusticeForAndry and #StopDeportations.

Support Advocacy Groups: Donate to or volunteer with organizations fighting for immigrant rights, such as the ACLU or RAICES.

Pressure Lawmakers: Contact your representatives and demand accountability for deportation policies. Urge them to investigate the use of CECOT and the Alien Enemies Act.

Stay Informed: Follow credible news outlets and journalists covering immigration. Knowledge is power.

The Bigger Picture

Hernandez’s deportation is a piece of a larger puzzle. The Trump administration’s immigration agenda, backed by figures like Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, has drawn criticism for its brutality. From denaturalization talks to outsourcing prisons, the policies flirt with authoritarianism. Yet, stories like Hernandez’s remind us of the human cost—real people, real dreams, real pain.

As I write this, Hernandez is still in CECOT, his fate uncertain. But his story doesn’t have to end there. By raising our voices, we can push for his return and for a system that values fairness over fear. Let’s not let Andry Hernandez Romero become a forgotten name. Let’s fight for him, for justice, and for a world where no one is punished for who they are.