It was a cold, judicial blow against an administration that, in recent months, had weaponized every law, every principle, and every trace of humanity under the guise of national security. But on Wednesday, the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit sent a signal—and left the door to the rule of law slightly ajar.
In a ruling whose significance reaches far beyond legal argumentation, the court refused to lift an injunction blocking the Trump White House from deporting Venezuelan migrants under the so-called Alien Enemies Act of 1798. It was the first time since World War II that this archaic statute had been invoked—not in the name of justice, but as a show of force.
In a ruling whose significance reaches far beyond legal argumentation, the court refused to lift an injunction blocking the Trump White House from deporting Venezuelan migrants under the so-called Alien Enemies Act of 1798. It was the first time since World War II that this archaic statute had been invoked—not in the name of justice, but as a show of force.
Trump’s administration had sought to deport hundreds of individuals, many of them asylum seekers, under the claim that they were members of an “invasive enemy,” specifically the Tren de Aragua gang. The logic read like a dystopian script: an entire population placed under suspicion, declared a threat by presidential decree.
But Judge James Boasberg, a name that has come to symbolize institutional resistance to executive overreach—did more than issue a temporary halt. He ordered that planeloads of deported Venezuelans be brought back to the United States.
The government disobeyed. What followed was a showdown—institutional, political, moral.
The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) filed suit on behalf of five Venezuelan noncitizens detained in Texas. What began as a legal case quickly became something more: a question of democratic essence. Who defines right and wrong in a democracy? A president with a pen, or a judge with a law?
Judge James Boasberg made it clear: Anyone facing deportation must be given the opportunity to challenge their classification as an alleged gang member. There is a strong public interest, Boasberg wrote, in preventing wrongful deportations, especially when they are based on categories that individuals have no real chance to contest.
The appeal was decided by a three-judge panel: Patricia Millett, nominated by President Obama; Justin Walker, appointed by Trump in 2020; and Karen LeCraft Henderson, who joined the bench under President George H. W. Bush. A politically diverse trio, with a decisive ruling.
With the appellate ruling, one thing is clear: Trump’s attempt to transform immigration law into a tool of executive power has—at least for now, been stopped. The deportation flights, cynically staged as acts of patriotism, have been exposed for what they truly are: an assault on international law, the Constitution, and human dignity.
Trump’s rhetoric reveals the anatomy of authoritarianism: when he speaks of security, he means control. When he speaks of danger, he means racial scapegoating. When he speaks of law, he means unchecked rule. And yet, amid this fog of fear, power, and propaganda, the judiciary remains a place where, at times, the human can still triumph over the authoritarian.
It was not a final victory. But it was a judgment against fear. And in these times, that is no small thing.
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