Back from the nightmare

A visual record documenting the return of deported Venezuelans from the U.S. Capturing raw moments of homecoming, liberation, and identity beyond political rhetoric

On February 11th this year, a plane from Conviasa, Venezuelas national airline landed on Maiquetía, it was the first flight from “Plan Vuelta a la Patria” (Return to Homeland plan). The aircraft was carrying 98 Venezuelan men, identified by U.S. Government as members of “Tren de Aragua”, a criminal gang that was dismantled by Venezuelan authorities on 2021 and received its final blow in 2023 when Tocoron, a prison in the state of Aragua, which they turned into their headquarters, was shut down by security forces. I was there to document the arrival of this and the following 15 planes.

On the runway, a small platform was set up for the press, where several journalists hurriedly gathered. After a few minutes, one of the most demonized figures of Venezuelan government appeared, a man who’s head is worth 10 million dollars for the U.S government: Diosdado Cabello the Minister of Interior, Justice, and Peace. He was accompanied by the recently sanctioned Director of the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service (SEBIN), Major General Alexis Rodríguez Cabello, as well as several representatives of Venezuelan security agencies.

As the plane appeared on the horizon, I was told I was the only one authorized to board it and capture the first images of Cabello and the returnees.

Hearing the “Down with the Chains” verse of Venezuela’s national anthem hits you differently while surrounded by countrymen shackled hand and foot by the “gringos.” I didn’t know their stories at first sight; I could only stare at their gazes, thankful smiles, and tears of joy. It was one of those moments where paraphrasing Augusto Mijares, I experienced the homeland not as a concept, but as a visceral feeling: the love for a shared identity and the hatred towards those who have historically oppressed us.

The men on board kept thanking President Nicolas Maduro, but it sounded different from the thanks im used to hear in political acts and campaign trail, these were not chants or empty flattery; these were the first words of men who had been locked away for months under inhumane conditions, now finally being freed by the the one they once viewed as the villain of their stories.

Eva Heller, in her book “Psychology of Color,” says gray is the color of all miseries, the one that destroys the joy of living, the color of somber feelings and cruelty. It makes sense then that the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) chose this as the color of the uniforms for the migrants they capture, imprison and in the best cases deport. It was the color worn by our compatriots.

After Venezuelan migration agents removed their shackles, the migrants disembarked the plane one by one. Before ascending the stairs to migration control, they were greeted again by Minister Cabello, many paused to thank him. Some were heavily wounded from traveling in “La Bestia” the dangerous train network that migrants risk their lives to board in pursuit of the “American Dream” which they now referred to as the “American nightmare”

On the repatriation flight of March 28, Leonel Moreno, a 27-year-old formerly known as “Leito Oficial”, arrived. He had amassed a significant amount of followers on TikTok and Instagram. Rumors about his deportation were already circulating online hours before Conviasa’s Embraer 190 landed.

Authorities followed their usual reception protocol but this time, Major General Rodríguez Cabello personally walked to the back of the plane to supervise the conditions under which the infamous influencer was traveling. Moreno was being guarded, as fellow passengers threatened to attack him, blaming him for their situation

Leonel illegally entered the U.S. in 2020, as part of a migratory wave not only  caused by economic crisis but also from a politically motivated operation led by Venezuelan opposition factions seeking to destabilize the country while at the same time, enriching themselves. Since 2014, U.S. and EU sanctions, as well as a corruption ring recently dismantled had battered Venezuela’s economy devastating workers’ incomes. Some opposition politicians found a lucrative opportunity in the crisis: selling fake asylum documentation, offering legal services, and travel packages under the pretense of escaping the dictatorship.

Leonel’s online content initially offered dubious advice to other migrants: invading private properties, begging on the streets and stealing. Over time it all worsened, fueled by visible drug use and evident personality disorders. Soon his girlfriend, also a Venezuelan illegal migrant, gave birth to a girl whom he showcased as an “anchor baby” a term for children born in the U.S. to undocumented parents, used to justify the regularization of their parents’ status. His harmful influence grew exponentially when Fox News used his content as ammunition against immigration during the 2024 U.S. presidential elections, reportedly impacting it so much, it contributed to Donald Trump’s victory. Upon arrival in Venezuela, Leonel was detained to face charges of hate crimes.

The next flight arrived on March 30th, this one was different: this time, it wasn’t Conviasa, but an Eastern Airlines plane, it was the first U.S. aircraft to land in Venezuela since 2019. 

After chaotic arrangements and a failed commitment to send 200 migrants, only 175 arrived. By mutual agreement Venezuelan authorities were not allowed to board the aircraft, only the pilots briefly disembarked to take protocol pictures. ICE officers were visible from the outside, most of them heavily tattooed.

As the migrants descended, I waited right outside. Many touched their wrists, showing marks and swelling from being shackled for days. Venezuelan agents freed them as soon as they set foot on homeland soil. On this occasion, I wasn’t inside the plane when they sang “Gloria al Bravo Pueblo” (Venezuela’s national anthem), but days later, as I visited them at a temporary shelter, they recounted how moving that moment was and how it shattered the media narratives fed to them for months about what awaited for them back home. ICE officers who once towered over them now seemed diminished under the notes of the national anthem and the amount of heavily armed Venezuelan officers guarding the landing runway.

Two weeks earlier, on March 15, 265 migrants, mostly Venezuelans, had been illegally seized by Donald Trump’s government and transferred to CECOT, El Salvador’s maximum-security prison, infamous for holding innocent people for opposing Nayibb Bukkeles government and for having tattoos. A similar profiling logic was used by ICE, judging migrants by their tattoos, clothing, and appearance.

Those arriving on the Eastern Airlines flight narrowly escaped CECOT thanks to a fierce Texas storm, which disrupted the deportation logistics. Originally, their boarding passes had El Salvador as their final destination.

Curiosity led me to join the newcomers through their journey back home. It began with a medical intake at a nearby hangar, the protocol included handwashing, drug tests, bloodwork, mental health screenings, and a criminal record verification process. Some men on the plane flagged by Venezuelan justice were immediately transferred to the relevant authorities, still none of them to this day belong to the structure of “Tren de Aragua”.

Even though they got to eat some snacks while going through the protocol, they finally got something that they were very excited about: their first real hot meal in months. As we boarded a bus together, the young men asked the driver to play Alí Primera’s music, but Alí wasn’t available, instead salsa music came to play: “Adios amor, no me resigno se que nunca volverás” most of them sang alone almost as if they had planned it. While the coastal road unfolded before us and the light from the golden hour reflected on their faces, I forgot for a moment I was working, instead it all felt like a beach trip with old friends. Now looking back I understand that’s part of what we are: salsa music and Caribbean. As we headed to a facility by the beach they reclaimed the spirit of a Venezuela they once left behind.

One of the guys caught my attention for one of his tattoos: an airplane upon a paper plane, captioned “Impossible”, which considering the situation looked almost prophetic. 23 year old Yeremy Arcia had spent eight years in Virginia. I asked if I could take some photos and he happily allowed me to follow his journey back home.

Yeremy kept smiling during his mugshots for SEBIN records, after more than a year at an ICE detention center, the kind treatment he received from Venezuelan officers felt almost surreal and reconnected him with the basic dignity that he had been stripped off while being incarcerated abroad.

Later that day with music floating in from a beach party nearby, he shared his story. He didn’t leave because of the crisis, instead he had some personal problems over a girl with a tough boyfriend that threatened to hurt him. He seemed very hopeful about the future, he had only been here for a few hours, but so far Venezuela in 2025 didn’t look to him like the country he left years ago.

Days later, I accompanied them as they departed to their home regions. Phones in hand, they snapped farewell selfies, they clearly had forged bonds of fraternity during their months of confinement. Boarding a bus to Caracas, the conversation turned hopeful: they were marveled at the infrastructure improvements, and kept asking me about car prices, popular hangouts, and tourist destinations.

One man, Francisco Luna, stood out of the rest, he wasn’t wearing the grey uniform, instead he was wearing a suit. Detained while dressed formally, he carried tattoos reminiscing his heritage, after spending 31 years in the U.S he showed me a bald eagle on one hand, and Simon Bolivar’s horse on the other, as well as a U.S and Venezuelan flags inked on each arm. He still carried his Florida driver’s license and work permit

“Trump, you’re the new Hitler,” Francisco declared to my camera, his voice trembling as he drew comparisons between migrant mistreatment in the U.S. and past atrocities committed by the Third Reich.

As we neared Caracas, a billboard caught my eye: “Faith in Our People,” a slogan from Nicolas Maduro’s re-election campaign, it served as a sharp contrast to U.S. narratives portraying the deportees as criminals, but the nightmare was over, finally they were home.

Upon arriving, SEBIN officers ensured each returnee reached their family safely. Yeremy was reunited with his cousin in an emotional embrace. Later, another migrant, who had lost track of his address after years away, was finally welcomed home by his entire family with tears flowing freely. If Philip Holsinger, the photographer who documented the Salvadorian-planned abduction watched those men turn into ghosts, I can say while holding my camera I witnessed these men come back to life.