In March 2025, Arturo Suárez Trejo, a 33-year-old from Caracas, Venezuela, called his wife, Nathali Sánchez, from an immigration detention center in Texas. He told her that his deportation flight to El Salvador had been delayed, but that he would soon be home to meet their three-month-old daughter, Nahiara, whom he had only seen on screens. What followed was a devastating turn of events: Suárez has not been heard from since.
Last weekend, Sánchez was scrolling through a photo released by the government of El Salvador showing Venezuelan men being transferred to the notorious Terrorism Confinement Center (CECOT), the country’s maximum-security prison. One of the men in the photo, shackled and in a prison uniform, appeared to be her husband. She recognized him by his tattoos—particularly one of a hummingbird on his neck—and by his facial features. Despite not being able to see his face clearly, Sánchez was certain it was Suárez.
The tattoo on Suárez’s neck, a hummingbird, symbolizes “harmony and good energy,” according to his wife. Another tattoo, a palm tree on his hand, was a tribute to his late mother and a Venezuelan saying. But despite their personal significance, these tattoos may have led to his detention and his family’s ongoing nightmare.
Suárez is one of at least ten Venezuelan men sent to El Salvador by the Trump administration, allegedly due to connections with the criminal group Tren de Aragua, a Venezuelan gang recently designated by the U.S. as a foreign terrorist organization. However, their families vehemently deny any affiliation with the group, asserting that their loved ones’ tattoos are the reason they were targeted. Many of the families, including Sánchez, have provided official documents proving that their relatives have no criminal records in Venezuela—evidence that might have persuaded U.S. judges had they been given due process.
In March 2024, the Trump administration invoked the Alien Enemies Act, a 1798 law originally used during wartime, to declare that Venezuela’s Tren de Aragua posed a national threat to the United States. This proclamation enabled the administration to quickly deport Venezuelans, including Suárez, without the typical legal protections. It marked the first time in U.S. history that the law was used absent a formal Congressional declaration of war.
Although a federal judge, James Boasberg, temporarily blocked the use of the Alien Enemies Act in response to a lawsuit by the ACLU and Democracy Forward, the Trump administration defied the ruling and continued deportations. As a result, Suárez and other Venezuelans are now trapped in El Salvador, without access to lawyers or communication with their families.
Suárez, an aspiring pop musician who records under the name SuarezVzla, had hoped to start a new life in the United States. His brother, Nelson Suárez, expressed his frustration at the treatment of his sibling and others like him. “As Venezuelans, we can’t be in our own country, so we came to a country where there is supposedly freedom of expression, human rights, and democracy,” he said. “Yet, the government is treating us like criminals based only on our tattoos, or because we’re Venezuelan, without any real evidence or proper investigation.”
The deportations have sparked outrage, not just for their legal and humanitarian implications, but also for the discriminatory nature of the policies. The families of those affected argue that tattoos, often deeply personal and symbolic, should not be grounds for criminalization. As the legal battle continues, the families are left with a painful uncertainty—seeking answers about their loved ones’ whereabouts, their safety, and the justice they deserve.
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