Trump’s Alien Enemy Act Deportations Spark Venezuelan Uproar, Judge Intervenes

Paul Riverbank, 12/27/2025Venezuelans deported under rare law spark legal, diplomatic clashes—and cries for justice and due process.

Take Ysqueibel Peñaloza, for instance. He stood beneath Caracas's overcast sky, voice catching as he recounted bewildering days in the Terrorism Confinement Center. "We ask for a genuine chance to be heard in your courts," he told reporters—a strange blend of plea and demand. With him stood dozens whose lives spun off course when the old, rarely-invoked Alien Enemy Act swept them up last winter, under a policy that still feels, to many, out of step with modern sensibilities.

The official story is dizzying. U.S. authorities, acting on thin suspicions—some say hunches—branded the men as affiliates of the Tren de Aragua gang. Many are quick to reject this label, and a few barely understood what it meant as deportation papers arrived. By March, they’d been hustled thousands of miles south, pressed into the windowless cells of CECOT, a fortress designed for El Salvador's most dangerous. Their fate seemed sealed until, as spring gave way to a sticky, anxious summer, the men were flown yet again—this time back home, swapped with Venezuela for reasons only diplomats could untangle.

While the world’s attention flickered elsewhere, their families gathered whatever scraps of information they could. Ana, mother to one of the detainees, described sleepless nights, calling ministries in vain. “No one could say where my son had vanished to, or if he was even alive,” she confided. Lawyers—frustrated by Kafkaesque process—warned the men might never see fair hearings.

But recently, change arrived in the measured language of Judge James Boasberg, speaking from a bench in Washington. His order: the government must explain, within two weeks, how these Venezuelan men will have their day in court. It is a procedural lifeline, not a rescue—but for the 252 individuals swept up so abruptly, even just the chance of due process feels like a small miracle.

Inside prison walls, however, officials’ statements mean little. Andry Blanco’s voice wavered as he described the ordeal—harsh guards, cramped cells, a sense that the outside world had simply turned the page. “We’ve suffered more than anyone should,” he said, calling out for international organizations to intervene, lest old patterns of abuse repeat themselves.

What lingers most, perhaps, is not the policy itself but the uncertainty it has produced. Some released men now refuse to leave their homes, wary of police or unknown watchers. Others mourn not just lost time, but the erosion of trust itself. “Why should we believe in any process, after all this?” asked Nolberto Aguilar, eyes downcast.

Venezuela’s government, perhaps sensing an opportunity or a duty, has begun to step up. At press gatherings thick with nervous relatives and wary officials, Vice Minister Camilla Fabri denounced what she calls “flagrantly unlawful acts” by foreign governments. Lawsuits loom. Behind the scenes, advocates from several nations draw up affidavits and testimony, hoping to bridge the canyon between diplomatic rhetoric and individual rights.

It’s a story caught between dusty legal frameworks and raw human desperation—a reminder that policy, no matter how obscure, leaves a mark on actual lives. The next steps, dictated by hurried filings and unpredictable courts, will determine more than just these men’s immediate future. For hundreds swept up by circumstance and suspicion, the hope now rests in the slow turning of the legal wheel, and in the world’s willingness to watch—if not act—before justice slips further from reach.

The story began, curiously enough, not with a bang but with a bureaucratic shuffle—a cluster of Venezuelan men, wrists pinched red from the cuffs, stumbling off U.S. charter planes into El Salvador’s notorious mega-prison. Their journey wound through diplomatic backchannels, courtroom surprises, and a blur of guarded transfers, though the world hardly noticed at first. Only lately have their voices filtered through the noise, calling out for something far more elusive than mere legal status: justice.Take Ysqueibel Peñaloza, for instance. He stood beneath Caracas's overcast sky, voice catching as he recounted bewildering days in the Terrorism Confinement Center. "We ask for a genuine chance to be heard in your courts," he told reporters—a strange blend of plea and demand. With him stood dozens whose lives spun off course when the old, rarely-invoked Alien Enemy Act swept them up last winter, under a policy that still feels, to many, out of step with modern sensibilities.The official story is dizzying. U.S. authorities, acting on thin suspicions—some say hunches—branded the men as affiliates of the Tren de Aragua gang. Many are quick to reject this label, and a few barely understood what it meant as deportation papers arrived. By March, they’d been hustled thousands of miles south, pressed into the windowless cells of CECOT, a fortress designed for El Salvador's most dangerous. Their fate seemed sealed until, as spring gave way to a sticky, anxious summer, the men were flown yet again—this time back home, swapped with Venezuela for reasons only diplomats could untangle.While the world’s attention flickered elsewhere, their families gathered whatever scraps of information they could. Ana, mother to one of the detainees, described sleepless nights, calling ministries in vain. “No one could say where my son had vanished to, or if he was even alive,” she confided. Lawyers—frustrated by Kafkaesque process—warned the men might never see fair hearings.But recently, change arrived in the measured language of Judge James Boasberg, speaking from a bench in Washington. His order: the government must explain, within two weeks, how these Venezuelan men will have their day in court. It is a procedural lifeline, not a rescue—but for the 252 individuals swept up so abruptly, even just the chance of due process feels like a small miracle.Inside prison walls, however, officials’ statements mean little. Andry Blanco’s voice wavered as he described the ordeal—harsh guards, cramped cells, a sense that the outside world had simply turned the page. “We’ve suffered more than anyone should,” he said, calling out for international organizations to intervene, lest old patterns of abuse repeat themselves.What lingers most, perhaps, is not the policy itself but the uncertainty it has produced. Some released men now refuse to leave their homes, wary of police or unknown watchers. Others mourn not just lost time, but the erosion of trust itself. “Why should we believe in any process, after all this?” asked Nolberto Aguilar, eyes downcast.Venezuela’s government, perhaps sensing an opportunity or a duty, has begun to step up. At press gatherings thick with nervous relatives and wary officials, Vice Minister Camilla Fabri denounced what she calls “flagrantly unlawful acts” by foreign governments. Lawsuits loom. Behind the scenes, advocates from several nations draw up affidavits and testimony, hoping to bridge the canyon between diplomatic rhetoric and individual rights.It’s a story caught between dusty legal frameworks and raw human desperation—a reminder that policy, no matter how obscure, leaves a mark on actual lives. The next steps, dictated by hurried filings and unpredictable courts, will determine more than just these men’s immediate future. For hundreds swept up by circumstance and suspicion, the hope now rests in the slow turning of the legal wheel, and in the world’s willingness to watch—if not act—before justice slips further from reach.