Andry Hernández Romero, a gay Venezuelan makeup artist, has transformed his harrowing experience into a beacon of hope and advocacy. Nearly a year after his release from El Salvador’s notorious Terrorism Confinement Center (CECOT)Hernández Romero continues to grapple with the aftermath of his wrongful deportation. His story, marked by resilience and determination, sheds light on the broader issues facing LGBTQ+ immigrants and asylum seekers.
The words requisa (search) and conteo (count) still echo in Hernández Romero’s mind, triggering memories of his time in CECOT. Deported to El Salvador in March 2026 under the Trump administration’s invocation of the Alien Enemies Acthe was accused of gang affiliation—a claim he has consistently denied. Despite his release, the trauma of his incarceration lingers, affecting his daily life.
The Path to Safety and the Lingering Trauma
Hernández Romero’s journey began when he entered the United States through the CBP One program in 2026, seeking asylum. However, his hopes for safety were shattered when he was detained and accused of being affiliated with the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua. His tattoos, which he says honor his parents, were used as flawed evidence against him. In March 2026, he was among hundreds of Venezuelan men deported to CECOT, where he spent 125 days before being released as part of a prisoner exchange.
Now in Spain, Hernández Romero awaits the resolution of his asylum application. Though he is physically safer, the emotional scars remain. “I’m in a safe place,” he said, “But this bitter experience isn’t going to disappear overnight.” His story has become a symbol of the struggles faced by LGBTQ+ asylum seekers, highlighting the systemic issues within the immigration detention system.
The Prison That Never Fully Lets Go
Hernández Romero’s phone is a constant reminder of the people he left behind. Messages from former detainees and their families flood his inbox, each one a plea for help and visibility. “People see a smile. They see strength. They see resilience,” he said, “But sometimes I’m human. Sometimes I break down.” The public image of resilience often masks the complex reality of his daily life, filled with uncertainty and emotional weight.
Many of the messages he receives are from mothers and former cellmates, seeking advice and support. Hernández Romero feels a deep obligation to amplify their voices, as many lack the public platform he now has. “There are many innocent people in prisons today who do not have the opportunity to raise their voices,” he said. “There are people being judged unfairly. I know because that was my case.”
Advocating for the Voiceless
Hernández Romero’s activism extends beyond his own experience. He is a vocal advocate for immigrants, asylum seekers, and former detainees who believe they were wrongly swept into the system. “I’ve been carrying out an activism campaign in support of immigrants and children because of everything that is happening today in the United States,” he said. His message is clear: tattoos are not evidence of criminal activity.
He frequently speaks about the 252 Venezuelan men who were imprisoned alongside him, many of whom remain largely unknown outside their families and legal teams. Hernández Romero’s advocacy also includes raising awareness about the treatment of LGBTQ+ individuals in detention centers. “The LGBTQ+ community right now has many people in detention centers who are being treated unfairly,” he said, highlighting the need for systemic change and respect for human rights.
Hernández Romero’s experiences in U.S. immigration detention, particularly at the Otay Mesa facility in California, have shaped his views on the need for reform. He recalls seeing Haitians, Cubans, and Venezuelans subjected to unequal treatment based on nationality. “Why should nationality be the principal factor in determining how an immigrant is treated?” he asked, advocating for individualized review and due process.
Building a Future and Honoring the Past
Looking ahead, Hernández Romero hopes to return to work as a makeup artist and fashion designer, eventually building a life in Los Angeles. “The final destination for Andry is Los Angeles, California,” he said, speaking of the city not as a dream but as a home. He also hopes to share his ideas directly with political leaders, including former Vice President Kamala Harris, proposing a system that evaluates people individually and respects their humanity.
Reflecting on the support he received from Americans during his detention, Hernández Romero expressed gratitude. “I never imagined my name, my image, my story would be so influential in the United States,” he said. Despite the challenges he faced, he maintains a deep connection to the country that both imprisoned and inspired him. “By nationality, I’m Venezuelan,” he said, “But in my heart, I’m American.”
