The Fight Was Worth It – Andry Hernández Romero, the CECOT, and the Double Exile of a Survivor

Under the title “The Crownless King” ( https://kaizen-blog.org/en/der-koenig-ohne-krone-the-crownless-king/ ) we first brought the case to public attention, traveled to El Salvador, spoke with relatives, documented prison conditions, and involved both the Immigrant Defenders Law Center and the Human Rights Campaign. What at first seemed like an isolated case turned out to be part of a system: a queer refugee, deported into a torture regime – and instrumentalized by a government that turned human rights into a bargaining chip. Today, months later, Andry Hernández Romero is back with his family. Not in freedom – but alive. And with a voice that no longer remains silent.

Hernández Romero spent four months in the high-security prison CECOT in El Salvador – a place internationally celebrated as a flagship project in the fight against gang violence, yet which for many inmates became a nightmare. For Hernández, as he himself said, it was an encounter with torture and death. He spoke of broken ribs, battered wrists, sexual violence by guards, and days spent in solitary confinement – all of which paint the picture of a system that no longer follows its own rules. In a video message, Hernández described how his tattoos – simple tributes reading “Mom” and “Dad” – were interpreted as proof of alleged membership in the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua. A mistake with a system. And with deadly consequences. What makes this case so explosive is not just the injustice at CECOT, but the path that led there. Donald Trump, back in the White House, invoked the Alien Enemies Act of 1798 – an emergency law originally intended for enemy nations during wartime – to deport over 250 Venezuelans from the U.S. to El Salvador without due process. Hernández Romero, who had been detained under the Biden administration and still had an active asylum application, was sacrificed to this state of legal exception. A politically orchestrated invisibility: no judicial review, no farewell, no protection.

Upon his arrival in Venezuela, he was welcomed by his parents and brother with tears and relief. But there were also others who had been waiting for him – those who held vigils, spread the news, launched petitions. I was never alone, said Hernández, visibly moved. And it is true. From afar, we all fought: lawyers, human rights organizations, journalists. The Immigrant Defenders Law Center, the Human Rights Campaign – they all made the case visible. For HRC, the treatment of queer refugees is no longer a side issue, but a constitutional crisis. The targeted return of people to countries they fled because of their sexual orientation is a violation of international human rights norms. That Hernández Romero can speak again today is more than an individual triumph. It is proof that public attention saves lives. That international solidarity can cross borders – even the walls of a megaprison built to intimidate. That political violence, no matter how technical and sanitized it may appear, must not have the final word. But the story is not over. El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele remains silent on the allegations. The U.S. government refers all inquiries to the Salvadoran authorities. And the Department of Homeland Security simply labels the deported individuals as criminal illegal gang members. Reuters has not yet been able to independently verify the allegations of torture. But the truth lies in Hernández Romero’s words: It fills me with so much peace, with comfort, with calm – that I was never alone from the first day. That is perhaps the very opposite of isolation. It is what politics cannot destroy: humanity. And if ever there was proof of that, it is Andry Hernández Romero – with his narrow face, his dark eyes, and the clear voice of a survivor. Take care, my friend.

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