He was a goalkeeper. A father. A soccer fan. And now: an inmate in one of the harshest prisons in the Western Hemisphere. Jerce Reyes Barrios, a 36-year-old Venezuelan former professional player, was deported by the United States to El Salvador in mid-March — over a tattoo allegedly linked to the “Tren de Aragua” gang.
What was framed as a targeted anti-gang operation reveals itself, upon closer inspection, as a case of political madness. And a tragic story of a man whose only offense may have been his love for Real Madrid.
Reyes Barrios has a tattoo: a crown, a soccer ball, a rosary, and the word “Dios.” For him, it’s a tribute to his favorite team. For U.S. authorities, it was interpreted as a gang marker. Together with a hand gesture on social media — the American Sign Language sign for “I love you,” misread as a gang sign — it became the basis for his deportation. His attorney, Linette Tobin, calls the process a farce: “He never committed a crime, entered legally, was waiting for his asylum hearing — and was deported without any due process.”
Reyes Barrios was arrested in September 2024 at a border crossing in California, right on time for his scheduled CBP One appointment — a program launched under Joe Biden to streamline the asylum process. But after Trump returned to office, the system was repurposed: from a gateway to a trap.
Reyes Barrios was one of 260 Venezuelans deported on one of the first mass flights — directly to the “Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo” (CECOT), a high-security prison in El Salvador that has been widely condemned by human rights groups for systemic abuse. Since 2022, over 85,000 people have been detained there — many without charges, without trial, without hope. According to internal sources, the number has since surpassed 100,000 inmates.
His wife, Mariyen Araujo, who remained in Mexico with two of their four children, says: “This isn’t justice. It’s arbitrary.” She also has a tattoo — a rose. “I’m afraid to even travel to the U.S.,” she says. “What if they take my kids away from me?”
The Reyes Barrios case is not an isolated one. Nolberto Aguilar, a Venezuelan influencer with over 40,000 followers, was also deported — for a tattoo allegedly depicting dice and playing cards. In reality, his sister says, the tattoo covers a scar from a childhood accident. Neither man has a criminal record, nor ties to any gang.
“We’re children of farmers,” says Jennifer Aguilar. “We fled hunger, dictatorship, violence. And now our brothers sit in a cell, in a country they’ve never set foot in.”
The deal between the Trump administration and El Salvador’s authoritarian president, Nayib Bukele, stipulates that the Central American country will accept migrants deemed a “threat” by U.S. authorities — in exchange for financial compensation. Official rationale: counterterrorism. Real outcome: outsourcing of responsibility. According to media reports, the U.S. government pays El Salvador around $24,000 per detainee — a price tag on human lives behind bars. Political scientist Michael Ahn Paarlberg calls it “a tropical gulag.” As for the Salvadoran legal system? There is no legal basis for such imprisonments.
A lawsuit against Trump’s use of the 1798 “Alien Enemies Act” is currently in preparation. But even if it succeeds — for men like Reyes Barrios, it may come too late. His next court date to hear his asylum application had been set for April 17. He won’t be there.
“My son is not a criminal,” says his mother. His wife adds: “He was a role model. As a player. As a father. As a man.”
And now? Silence. Steel bars. Lost hope.
What remains is the question: How many innocent lives must be sacrificed in the name of toughness?
And how much longer can democracies survive when they begin to resemble their enemies?
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