In preparation for the new year, Andry Hern\u00e1ndez Romero, his best friend and his family are building an a\u00f1o viejo: a human-sized doll made of scrap wood and rags, styled with old clothes and stuffed with fireworks.<\/p>\n
On New Year\u2019s Eve, when the clock strikes midnight, they\u2019ll set it ablaze.<\/p>\n
Hern\u00e1ndez Romero \u2013 who was released from a notorious Salvadorian mega-prison five months ago \u2013 is especially excited about the annual tradition this year. \u201cThis is our way of welcoming the new year with joy,\u201d he said. It also means purging the old one with a cleansing fire.<\/p>\n
The 32-year-old makeup artist<\/a> was one of 252 Venezuelan men who were accused by Donald Trump and his administration of being members of the transnational Tren de Aragua gang. Without due process or any forewarning, the men \u2013 many of them asylum seekers, most without criminal records \u2013 were rounded up from around the US and sent to the notorious Terrorism Confinement Center (Cecot) in El Salvador.<\/p>\n For four months, the men were routinely beaten, abused and, in some cases, sexually assaulted, enduring treatment that human rights groups have characterized<\/a> as \u201csystemic torture\u201d. Human Rights Watch and the Central American human rights group Cristosal concluded that the men were \u201csubjected to serious physical and psychological abuse on a near-daily basis, throughout their entire time in detention\u201d.<\/p>\n Then, in July, they were abruptly released as part of a diplomatic deal between Venezuela and the US. The Guardian kept in touch with Hern\u00e1ndez Romero and three other men who were incarcerated at Cecot as they returned home to Venezuela, and picked up the lives they had left behind<\/a>.<\/p>\n \u201cThere were so many mixed feelings on the way home,\u201d Hern\u00e1ndez Romero said. \u201cThere was the joy of seeing my father\u2019s face, of hugging my brother, hugging my best friend, eating my mother\u2019s food.\u201d And there was the sinking realization that everything had changed. \u201cI would like to reintegrate into society and pretend that my life is completely normal,\u201d he said. \u201cBut it wouldn\u2019t be true.\u201d<\/p>\n Jerce Reyes Barrios and his father. Photograph: Courtesy of Jerce Reyes Barrios<\/p>\n Jerce Reyes Barrios<\/a>, 36 \u2013 another of the 252 men released that day \u2013 didn\u2019t know how to put words to the feeling. \u201cIt was such a mixture of \u2013 happiness? Sadness?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Jos\u00e9 Manuel Ramos Bastidas<\/a>, 31, said it felt surreal. \u201cI never thought I would get out,\u201d he said. \u201cLike, I can\u2019t believe it. I got out of that place.\u201d<\/p>\n For the first several weeks after his return, 29-year-old Edicson David Quintero Chac\u00f3n<\/a> said, he savored every moment \u2013 going to the pool with his kids, re-downloading his TikTok and other social media accounts and putting on the new clothes his sister brought him. He took a two-hour motorcycle ride to a nearby city where he met up with a friend and got lunch. \u201cI passed by some horses and I watched them by the river,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I told my friend just how beautiful freedom felt. How freedom is the most beautiful thing in life.\u201d<\/p>\n But as time passed, he said, the images and memories of his time inside the prison kept returning, like flashbacks. \u201cIt\u2019s like a movie that keeps playing in my head,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s an experience that remains engraved in the mind. Like a tape that is never erased.\u201d<\/p>\n There were many, many beatings, Quintero said: \u201cIf we talked, they would beat us.\u201d At one point, he recalled, he developed an agonizing headache after a beating. The doctor he saw told him it was his fault, that he had probably drunk too much water. \u201cI felt crazy,\u201d he said. After that, he knew it was fruitless to even try to get medical care. He felt a toothache so intense he wanted to rip his molars out himself, he said: \u201cBut what was the point of asking for a pill that was not there?\u201d<\/p>\n Routinely, the guards isolated detainees in a dark room known as \u201cLa Isla\u201d, he recalled. At one point, Hernand\u00e9z Romero has said, he was dragged there and sexually abused. Hernand\u00e9z Romero no longer wishes to recount the details of the alleged abuse, but said he hopes he will one day see justice for what happened: \u201cIf not earthly justice, then a divine justice, from Father God.\u201d<\/p>\n Edicson David Quintero Chac\u00f3n and his family. Photograph: Edicson David Quintero Chac\u00f3n<\/p>\n Out of desperation, Ramos said, a group of the detainees staged hunger strikes, refusing their rations for days and demanding that the guards explain to them what was happening, and when they could leave. He witnessed a man cutting himself, in what Ramos understood to be a \u201cblood protest\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cWe fought for our lives, for our freedom or for them to kill us so we could stop suffering so much, because every day it was blow after blow for no reason,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n But the guards told them they would never leave. That no one on the outside was looking for them.<\/p>\n Ramos said he has struggled to spend any time alone since his return home. \u201cI used to like spending time alone,\u201d he said. \u201cBut now when I am alone, I feel like I\u2019m both there and not there at the same time.\u201d<\/p>\n As the weeks wear on, Ramos said, the men are being reminded why they left Venezuela<\/a> in the first place. Some had fled Venezuela seeking political asylum in the US. Others had left in search of work.<\/p>\n Ramos left in January 2024, hoping to earn more money to pay for the medical treatment of his newborn son, who was born with severe respiratory issues. His meager wages as a mechanic and car washer weren\u2019t enough to pay the mounting hospital bills. \u201cNow I spend my day-to-day just walking around, looking for something to do \u2013 to repair a motorcycle, to fix an appliance \u2026 seeking to earn something,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Quintero \u2013 a carpenter and a fisher \u2013 had been working since he was 12 to support his family, and had come to the US in April 2024. He sold his motorcycle and saved for weeks so he could afford to pay his way to the north, wagering that once he made it out of Venezuela, he\u2019d be able to earn more, enough to build a small house for his family and enough to support his mother.<\/p>\n When he arrived at the US southern border, immigration officials fitted him with an ankle monitor and gave him paperwork with instructions to routinely check in with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). In June, Quintero was detained while checking in.<\/p>\n He spent more than a year in detention \u2013 first in the US, mainly at the Stewart detention center in Georgia, and then at Cecot. \u201cI was gone for so long, and it was hard on my mother, because it fell on her to support the children, buying all their school supplies and things,\u201d he said. \u201cNow it\u2019s my turn to support her.\u201d<\/p>\n But he quickly realized that, back at home, it was nearly impossible to earn enough money.<\/p>\n The economic worries have blended in with post-traumatic aftershocks, said Reyes, a 36-year-old soccer player and coach from Machiques, a small, rural city close to the border with Colombia. \u201cI can\u2019t sleep for eight hours straight. At most I get three or four at night,\u201d he said. \u201cSometimes I wake up talking to myself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI want to stop these effects,\u201d he added. \u201cBecause I cannot neglect my family. My daughters depend on me \u2026 It\u2019s a lot of stress.\u201d<\/p>\n They are living in a paradox, said Hern\u00e1ndez Romero. While they were locked away, he and the 251 others became an international news story.<\/p>\n Their families and communities rallied to support them. New articles and TV segments featured their life stories \u2013 their young children, their doting parents, their budding careers as sports stars. \u201cWe became almost famous,\u201d he said. \u201cAt what cost?\u201d<\/p>\n The Human Rights Campaign held a rally demanding Hern\u00e1ndez Romero\u2019s release during Pride month in Washington DC. The New Queens Pride parade in New York made him the honorary grand marshal. Even now, Hern\u00e1ndez Romero said, he is moved each time he receives a message from queer supporters in other Latin American countries, or in the US. \u201cThey tell me how brave I am, how they identify with me, how they are praying for me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Jos\u00e9 Manuel Ramos Bastidas with his wife, daughters and son. Photograph: Obtained by the Guardian<\/p>\n After his release, a woman messaged him and asked to send him a new makeup kit and other supplies that had been confiscated from him when US authorities arrested and detained him. \u201cShe is an angel,\u201d he said. \u201cThere is a little place in heaven for her.\u201d<\/p>\n Some day, he said, he hopes to pay it forward by creating a foundation to empower LGBTQ+ people, and people living with HIV.<\/p>\n \u201cBut being known is also complicated,\u201d he said. He is aware that he and the 251 other men were used \u2013 as political props or pawns.<\/p>\n