This Is Not Justice. This Is Disappearance.

Andry, Mahmoud, and Jerce are gone. Without trial. Without charges. Without hope.

Jun 10, 2025

It’s been a while since their names made headlines. But silence doesn’t mean the injustice is over—it means it’s being buried.

Kilmar Abrego García, whose case once drew national headlines, has since been returned to the United States. But his situation remains complex. He is still detained, facing multiple charges, and fighting for his future. Others, like Andry, Mahmoud, and Jerce, remain disappeared abroad with no clear path forward.

Andry Hernández Romero: Denied Due Process

Andry Hernández Romero is a gay makeup artist who fled Venezuela after facing persecution for his sexual orientation and political beliefs. He has no known criminal record.

Last year, Andry legally immigrated from Venezuela to Mexico and secured an asylum appointment to enter the United States. While his case was still pending and he was working with an immigration attorney, Andry was detained in San Francisco—and then deported without warning to El Salvador’s CECOT mega-prison.

The reason? Three tattoos: two crowns bearing his parents’ names, and a snake. Authorities labeled him a gang member based on these images. The mayor of Andry’s hometown later certified that he had no criminal record.

Why was Andry deported? Because of tattoos. That’s it. No trial. No conviction. No chance to defend himself.

No one has heard from Andry since. His lawyers have received no confirmation of his whereabouts, no proof of life, and no indication that he’s been granted access to legal counsel or even basic safety.

He followed the law. The law abandoned him.

Mahmoud Khalil: Punished for Protected Speech

Mahmoud Khalil is a graduate student at Columbia University. He was arrested in the lobby of his apartment building—his pregnant wife witnessing the entire thing.

The Department of Justice accused Mahmoud of distributing pro-Hamas materials and engaging in antisemitic activity on campus. But he was never charged with a crime.

Instead, he was deported under the Alien Enemies Act—a centuries-old wartime law revived by the Trump administration to remove individuals labeled as “threats” to national security. His lawyers argue the accusations stemmed not from criminal conduct, but from constitutionally protected political expression.

The Trump administration claims Mahmoud is a foreign threat due to alleged support for Hamas, though no direct evidence or formal charges have been presented to the public. But protesting for Palestinian rights does not automatically equate to supporting Hamas, just as criticizing a government does not mean calling for its destruction.

Under new directives from Secretary of State Marco Rubio, the federal government now claims the power to deport anyone it deems a foreign policy risk—without trial, without charges, without oversight.

While detained, Mahmoud missed the birth of his first child. To this day, the only contact he’s had with his infant son has been through a sheet of plexiglass.

He was a student. A husband. A new father.
He spoke out. And for that, he was disappeared.

Jerce Reyes Barrios: Criminalized by a Tattoo

Jerce Reyes Barrios is a professional soccer player, coach, and father of two from Venezuela. He came to the United States legally, seeking asylum, a fair hearing, and a safer future for his children.

But after arriving, Jerce was detained and deported—without warning, without a trial, and without a single criminal charge.

Why? A tattoo.

Border agents flagged a crown-and-soccer-ball design on his arm as a gang symbol. In reality, it was a tribute to Real Madrid, confirmed by his tattoo artist. Jerce also flashed a hand gesture in an old social medial post, later clarified by lawyers as a harmless sign–either a “rock and roll” pose or “I love you” in sign language.

No criminal record. No evidence. No hearing.

And then the silence.

His family didn’t learn what happened to him until they spotted him standing behind a barricade in photos released by El Salvador’s government. His aunt says she recognized him by a scar.

“He’s been taken from us,” she told reporters. His young children didn’t even know where he was. One daughter made a video, tearfully recalling how her father would take her to soccer games and make her breakfast: bread, eggs, and juice.

He was a coach. A father. A man just days away from his asylum hearing.
And now, he might never return.

Three names. Three lives. One pattern: no charges, no trial, no justice.

And they’re not alone.

These are just three of the individuals who have been detained or deported without ever being formally charged with a crime. There may be hundreds more—silenced, disappeared, and denied one of the most fundamental rights guaranteed by our Constitution: the right to due process.

Christian Teaching on Immigration: A Moral Compass

The late Pope Francis was one of the most outspoken advocates for migrant dignity in modern history. He did not mince words when addressing those who obstruct refugees and asylum seekers:

"It needs to be said clearly: There are those who systematically work by all means to drive away migrants, and this, when done knowingly and deliberately, is a grave sin.”

His successor, Pope Leo XIV, a descendant of immigrants, has continued this legacy. In a recent address to diplomats in Rome, he reaffirmed that the dignity of migrants must be respected, no matter the politics of the moment.

The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops echoes this teaching, outlining three foundational principles for approaching immigration:

People have the right to migrate to sustain their lives and the lives of their families.
Nations have the right to regulate their borders and control immigration.
But nations must do so with justice and mercy.

This framework isn’t about political affiliation. It’s about moral obligation.

From a broader Christian perspective, immigration is not just a policy issue—it is a Gospel issue. Scripture consistently commands hospitality to the stranger, reminding believers, “You were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deut. 10:19). Jesus Himself was a refugee, fleeing state-sanctioned violence as an infant.

Across denominations, Christian traditions uphold the sacred dignity of the immigrant, emphasizing compassion, family unity, and justice. While views on specific legislation may differ, the theological core remains clear: every person bears the image of God, and followers of Christ are called to welcome—not vilify—the vulnerable among us.

If our laws no longer reflect these values, then we must speak not just as voters, but as neighbors. As believers. As citizens who remember what it means to be free.

Outsourcing Injustice

CECOT

CECOT—the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo—was built in 2023 in El Salvador and is now the largest prison in the Americas, with a capacity of 40,000 inmates. It is designed for spectacle and severity, not justice.

Human rights groups have repeatedly condemned its conditions as inhumane and unconstitutional by international standards.

According to Britannica:

“The prison confines detainees in heavily crowded cells—sometimes with more than 100 people—for up to 23 and a half hours a day. The lights remain on around the clock inside the facility. Inmates are denied outdoor access, visits from family, and communication with the outside world; even lawyers are barred from seeing their clients, effectively cutting prisoners off from legal representation and support. Moreover, the institution does not offer educational opportunities or rehabilitation programs of any kind to prepare prisoners for reentry into society after their sentences.”

In short: no sunlight. No contact. No hope. And no way to get out, even if you don’t belong there.

ICE Detention Centers

While not as extreme as CECOT, U.S. immigration detention centers have also come under scrutiny for severe neglect. The ACLU has documented cases of medical inattention, psychological abuse, and preventable deaths within ICE facilities—where even legal standards often go unenforced.

The point isn’t that U.S. detention is humane. It’s that our government has found somewhere worse—and is outsourcing accountability to it.

Imagine being denied the chance to prove your innocence—then shipped across borders, locked in a cell with 100 strangers, and forgotten. No trial. No appeal. No one even knows you’re there.

This is not just administrative failure.
It is cruelty by design.

They Said It Was About the Law. Then They Changed the Law.

During the campaign, Trump repeatedly claimed that only undocumented immigrants with criminal records would be deported. But once in power, the goalposts moved.

Suddenly, asylum seekers who showed up for scheduled appointments were arrested. A college student who wrote an op-ed criticizing the Israeli government was pulled from the street and deported. Temporary protected status was revoked for hundreds of thousands of immigrants who had been living in the U.S. legally for years.

They said, “We just want you to do it legally.”
Then they shut down the CBP One app.

They said, “We only deport criminals.”
Then they deported asylum seekers with no charges, no trials, and no hearings.

They said, “Follow the process.”
Then they changed the process, mid-stream.

Why CECOT?

Why can’t these individuals be held in the U.S.?

They can. But detaining them here comes with legal standards, court oversight, and constitutional rights. Deporting them to CECOT is faster. Cheaper. And less accountable.

It’s not about public safety. It’s about control.
And cruelty without consequence.

Due Process Isn’t Optional

It’s become fashionable in some circles to mock those who defend due process—especially when the accused are immigrants.

Vice President JD Vance routinely uses strawman arguments to suggest that advocating for legal rights means inviting violent criminals into our neighborhoods. Donald Trump insists that giving everyone a fair hearing simply takes “too long.” And when courts rule against him, he often ignores them.

But here’s the truth: due process isn’t optional. It isn’t a luxury reserved for the agreeable, the familiar, or the favored. It’s the foundation of a free society.

“No person shall... be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.”
— Fifth Amendment, U.S. Constitution

The Constitution doesn’t say ‘no citizen.’ It says, ‘no person.’ That distinction is deliberate. It means that due process applies to everyone under U.S. jurisdiction, not just those with the right papers or the right politics.

That protection doesn’t vanish because someone is undocumented, unpopular, or misunderstood. If anything, it becomes more important.

Perhaps you don’t support Andry’s sexual orientation, or Mahmoud’s pro-Palestinian protests. Maybe you take issue with Jerce’s tattoos. Maybe you think they’re reckless, or wrong, or simply not your kind of people.

But here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter.

That’s the beauty—and the burden—of due process. It isn’t earned by popularity. It isn’t a prize for the likable. It’s a right. A promise. A line that protects us all.

Even the worst among us—serial killers and rapists—get their day in court. Andry, Mahmoud, and Jerce were never given that chance.

This isn’t about character. It’s about the Constitution. They had the right to present their case, to be heard by a judge, to be treated as human beings under the law. That right was stolen.

We should never accept a system that allows a person to be accused—then deported in silence, without ever stepping into a courtroom. That is not the America I have ever lived in. And it is not one I want to see take root.

Due process should not be a partisan issue. Can we not agree—at the very least—that no one should be sent to a foreign prison without a chance to defend themselves?

Call your representatives. Challenge the narrative. And remember: when one person is denied their rights without trial, it’s not just about them. It’s about all of us.

These aren’t nameless enemies.
They are students. Artists. Fathers. Human beings.
Each one made in the image of God.

Don’t let these names disappear.
Say them. Share them.
Speak their stories—before silence becomes our new default.