Andry Hernández Romero: A life rebuilt after a year marked by detention and resilience
Andry Hernández Romero lights up at the mention of Italian food, a simple pleasure he now savors after a year that tested him in ways few people endure. The 32-year-old Venezuelan makeup artist from Capacho Nuevo in Táchira – right on the border with Colombia – sits at his parents’ home and shares a smile that momentarily lifts the weight of the past year from his shoulders. He wears a T-shirt bearing an image of himself holding a jeweled crown, a symbol of the unexpected public attention his case drew as he fought to reclaim his name and his freedom.
Hernández Romero’s story is a harrowing journey through detention, deportation, and a prison condition that advocates describe as torturous. At the heart of it is a crisis that began far from home: a multinational tug-of-war over Venezuelan migrants and asylum seekers that culminated in a detention system in El Salvador known as CECOT, the Terror Confinement Center. In his own words, he wants the world to understand that being Venezuelan is not a crime.
From California to Texas to CECOT
Before the upheaval in El Salvador, Hernández Romero had already spent months in U.S. immigration detention. He entered the United States legally at the San Ysidro port of entry in August 2024, seeking asylum on the grounds of political persecution and threats tied to his sexual orientation. Detained quickly, he was labeled as associated with the Venezuelan Tren de Aragua gang based on only two tattoos, a “mom” and “dad” with a crown, a charge he denies and a label he insists mischaracterized him.
On March 15, he was deported under the Trump administration’s revived use of the Alien Enemies Act, sent to El Salvador without a hearing and with no direct ties to that country. He has since recounted how U.S. officers described their destination to detainees with staged delays that culminated in a swift transfer to San Salvador, landing on a Saturday when courts were closed. The account of that moment, described to reporters, includes guards dragging detainees and the chilling sense that the fate of many was decided away from public view.
Once in CECOT, he spent four months behind security barriers that human rights groups have called torturous. The last time U.S. officials saw him, a Time photographer captured his arrival as guards shaved his head and he cried out, “I’m gay,” calling for his mother’s name in a moment of fear that would become emblematic for a broader narrative about asylum and dignity.
A daily life that masked fear
Hernández Romero offers a meticulous, almost clinical recounting of life inside CECOT. There were no mattresses or blankets in the cells; beds were metal slabs, and the lighting was relentless. Detainees rose early for roll call, with little time for personal care before breakfast. There was no television and few opportunities to go outdoors. Meals arrived at set times, and days were punctuated by religious services and small-group discussions led by a prison pastor.
The guards kept a constant watch, with the implied threat that many would never leave. “They told us we would die there, that we would spend more than 20 years condemned as terrorists,” Hernández Romero recalled. Yet even in that brutal environment, faith became a lifeline. He describes the routine of prayer and scripture as something that helped lessen the weight of the days.
Inside CECOT, Hernández Romero was the only openly gay man in his unit. In a hyper-masculine setting, he says mutual respect became the glue that kept tensions manageable. “Before being gay, I am a man,” he noted. He learned to blend in, to listen, and to keep his own counsel, describing a delicate balance between self-respect and adaptation.
A public outcry and a coalition of support
Back home and across the United States, Hernández Romero’s case grew into a cause celebre among activists, lawmakers, and everyday Americans who saw in his story a stark example of injustice and resilience. His image and words appeared at Pride events, on banners outside the U.S. Supreme Court, and across television and podcast discussions about the treatment of migrants seeking asylum.
For Hernández Romero, the support wasn’t just symbolic. It provided a vital lifeline, and he has spoken of his gratitude for people who took time from their lives to march, to post, and to offer messages of solidarity. “If something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us,” he said, emphasizing a sense of shared purpose.
The night before what would become his release, false promises that had punctuated his captivity contributed to a fragile sense of hope. But a pastor’s words carried real weight: “The miracle is done. Tomorrow will be a new day for you.” On July 18, the group of 252 Venezuelan men deported from the United States to El Salvador was told to strip to their boxers, shower, and prepare for a move. They were loaded onto buses and driven to a military base. The moment they stepped onto what they believed might be the threshold to a new life, Venezuelan planes appeared on the tarmac, signaling a return to home soil.
Toward home and a future
Now back in Venezuela, Hernández Romero is working with a legal team to navigate his options and rebuild his life. The road ahead is still uncertain: the political climate in Venezuela has grown more repressive, particularly toward LGBTQ+ individuals, and advocates warn that he remains a risk in the eyes of some authorities. Yet there are glimmers of potential safety abroad. Lawyers have reported interest from contacts in Europe who are prepared to offer sanctuary if a path can be found to relocate him.
For Hernández Romero, the immediate priority is to restore his good name and return to his craft. He wants the world to know he is not a criminal, but a stylist and makeup artist whose chosen tools are brushes, not violence. Even as he rebuilds his professional kit from scratch, his resolve remains undimmed. He envisions a future where his art not only resumes its place in his life but also becomes a platform to support others facing discrimination or persecution.
A life enriched by gratitude and renewal
Since his return, Hernández Romero has embraced the small daily joys that had once felt ordinary. He starts each day with gratitude, returning to nature with hikes, reading for pleasure, traveling, and spending time with friends. He jokes about his love of food, explaining that he has “no bottom” when it comes to eating, and he continues to work on his makeup skills, with a client’s appointment already scheduled after this interview.
He took part in a public procession honoring the Virgin Mary, wearing shirts bearing his image and the slogan “Libertad para Andry” — Freedom for Andry. Those who recognized him in the crowd approached with warmth and encouragement, underscoring how his struggle has resonated beyond borders and across communities.
A hopeful path forward
Hernández Romero says the experience has taught him patience and a new sense of optimism. He has learned to pace himself, to accept help from trusted friends and colleagues, and to lean into the support of people who believe in his cause. He also recognizes his own growth: moving beyond perfectionism in his design work, learning to trust others to help him realize his vision, and planning to channel his experiences into advocacy and charitable efforts that amplify LGBTQ+ voices.
As he continues to rebuild his life—and his makeup kit—Hernández Romero remains grateful for the coalition that stood with him, for his family’s renewed strength, and for the strangers who offered messages of love and solidarity. His message to the LGBTQ+ community is one of kinship and reassurance: you are not alone, and the fight for dignity and safety is a shared journey that continues beyond any single court ruling or political moment.
Summary
Andry Hernández Romero’s story is a portrait of endurance across borders and systems that can fail the vulnerable. From asylum-seeker to detainee in one of the Americas’ most controversial detention centers, to a return home mediated by a broad network of supporters, his experience sheds light on the human consequences of migration policy, the resilience of individuals under pressure, and the power of solidarity to restore hope. His path forward—focused on reclaiming his name, rebuilding his artistry, and advancing causes for LGBTQ+ rights and asylum reform—offers a hopeful narrative about turning trauma into work that helps others.
Editor’s note for readers: Hernández Romero’s case intersects with ongoing debates about asylum policies, border enforcement, and the treatment of LGBTQ+ migrants. Readers who want to learn more or support related advocacy efforts can seek organizations that provide legal aid and humanitarian assistance to asylum seekers and LGBTQ+ communities.