Venezuelan refugee sought asylum in L.A. Then came the ICE raids

Jerardyn sat quietly on the bus, her mood relaxed as her eyes scanned the fleeting horizon of Southern California one August afternoon.

But as the U.S.-Mexico border wall, a towering barrier of steel pillars, came into view, she began taking big, deep breaths. Her heart began to race as she clutched her immigration documents and tried to hide her anxiety from her two youngest children traveling with her. She caught what she believed would be her last glimpse of the United States for now.

A refugee from Venezuela, Jerardyn, 40, entered the United States last year with her family, hoping to obtain asylum. But this was before President Trump took office and launched immigration raids across Southern California, shattering her sense of safety. She lived in fear that immigration agents would detain her or, worse, send her family back to Venezuela, where they risked facing retribution from the government of President Nicolás Maduro.

So after eight months of living in the basement of an L.A. church, she made a painful decision. She would migrate again. This time she’d voluntarily move back to Mexico with her two youngest kids, leaving behind her two eldest, who are applying for asylum.

She planned meticulously. She withdrew her asylum application from immigration court. She found an apartment outside Mexico City. She filled two boxes with toys, clothes and shoes to ship to Mexico ahead of her departure. She bought bus tickets to Tijuana and plane tickets to Mexico City.

The bus ride from Los Angeles to Tijuana had been smooth, but as they pulled into the National Institute of Migration, Mexico’s border immigration office, she felt a sense of dread.

“I’m panicking,” she said.

She hadn’t expected to face Mexican immigration officials so soon. She tried to self-soothe by telling herself that no matter what, she would figure it out.

“I’m going to make it in any country because I’m the one doing it.”

Gathering her bags and suitcase, she shepherded Milagro, 7, and David, 10, into the empty line and handed her Venezuelan passport to an immigration officer. He gave her a stern look and pulled Jerardyn and her children away from the counter and into another room.

Would Mexico deport her to Venezuela? Or grant her some mercy? All she knew was that the doors leading to Mexico were, for now, closed.

Jerardyn grew up in a comfortable, middle-class family in a seaport city, the youngest of eight, and was doted upon by her father. She had aspirations of becoming a social worker, but at 15, she became pregnant. Her parents initially disapproved, but her father, a former police officer, came around after she told him she would name her firstborn after him.

Jerardyn asked that her last name not be published, for fear of retribution for fleeing Venezuela, an act viewed as treason by the government. Her children are being identified by their middle names.

With help from her parents, she earned a certification to become a medical technician. But after her second son, Jahir, was born, her father died, upending her life.

When she was 22, Jerardyn said, she was assaulted by a man who had hired her to do some office cleaning, an ordeal that left her scarred. Violence became rife in Venezuela, as family members got caught up in illegal activity. A nephew she helped raise since he was young was shot by a police officer in front of her, she said.

Conditions in Venezuela continued to worsen. The economy collapsed, bankrupting an auto parts shop she had been running with her husband. By the time Milagro was born in 2018, their relationship had become strained, and they were no longer a couple.

As corruption ran rampant in Venezuela, Jerardyn learned that government officials were kidnapping teens. It wasn’t long before her oldest son, Jesus, then 17, became a target.

During a nationwide power outage in 2019, Jesus went out to buy gasoline around 10 a.m. but never returned. Panicked, she went looking for him, but no one knew where he was.

Frantic, she prayed to God for his safe return. At midnight, government officials released him.

Jerardyn, who lovingly refers to her children as her pollitos — baby chicks — concluded they were no longer safe in their homeland. So without notifying her family, she fled with the children to neighboring Colombia. Milagro was 4 months old.

“No one knows what you live through in your country,” she said of her decision to escape Venezuela. “If I had stayed there, my kids could have died from hunger, suffered psychological torture, kidnappings, so many things…. I’m just trying to save them.”

Aid workers in Colombia helped the family relocate to Lima, Peru, where Jerardyn worked as a server and in clothing stores.

She made one foray back to Venezuela during that time — attempting to obtain passports for her children. But that effort backfired. Government officials detained her and her children in a white room and forced her to pay the equivalent of $3,000 to be released, with no passports for David and Milagro.

Peru did not prove to be a refuge either. The country was growing increasingly hostile to Venezuelan immigrants, and her sons faced bullying in school. So after four years of living abroad, she began researching what it would take to travel through the Darien Gap, the dangerous strip of jungle linking Central and South America.

She made a list of what they needed to pack to survive.

Altogether, there were six on the journey through the Darien Gap — Jerardyn, her four children, her daughter-in-law, and Pelusa, a dog they had found in Peru. She was especially worried about David, who was 8, and Milagro, then 5.

The jungle was “a living hell,” she recalled, a place where people lost their humanity. Migrants robbed other migrants. Travelers were left injured and abandoned by their families. Jerardyn and her kids had to hike past decomposing bodies, an image she cannot shake. They could hear snakes slithering past their tent when it was not raining, which it often did.

It took the family five days to cross the jungle. She was certain that if one of them died, she would have stayed behind too.

After a month traveling through Mexico, they arrived in the capital covered in dirt, their sandals worn down from the miles behind them. Jesus’ feet were bloody. A taxi driver recommended they visit the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. They arrived at 6 a.m., exhausted and penniless.

After the morning Mass, Jerardyn kneeled and prayed for her family’s safety and a pathway to a life in Mexico, while they waited to enter the U.S.

A pathway soon emerged. A friend helped her settle in Texcoco de Mora, a town northeast of Mexico City. Jerardyn began working at a salon and enrolled Milagro and David in school. Jesus and Jahir hawked vegetables at street markets, and her daughter-in-law worked at a restaurant. Every day, they tried to land a CBP One appointment, which would allow them to enter the U.S. legally to seek asylum.

By a stroke of luck and persistence, the family secured a coveted appointment on Dec. 11, 2024. They continued north to Nogales, Mexico, and suddenly Jerardyn was seeing the U.S. southern border for the first time.

Moments later, she heard a U.S. immigration official voice the words she had long awaited: “Welcome to the United States.”

Immigration raids had been roiling Los Angeles for more than a month when Jerardyn went to Mass one Sunday in July. Having just finished her overnight shift cleaning up a stadium after a concert, she smiled tiredly as she joined her children in the front pew at the church in South L.A. She hugged them as Pastor Ivan began preaching about immigrants and how they shape communities.

Before the raids, the pews would be filled with dozens of families. Now, only a handful of people sat scattered around.

Pastor Ivan’s voice boomed as he urged the congregation to pray for families torn apart by the raids. After a prayer, Jerardyn stood, picked up the collection basket and began gathering donations for the church. She had given Milagro and David a few dollars, which they dropped into the basket.

The church became their haven in January after Jerardyn spent a night homeless. Along with her kids, she had originally been staying with the father of her children, who arrived in the U.S. from Venezuela on his own years ago. But after an argument, he kicked her out of the apartment, forcing her to find a new refuge for herself and her kids.

Pastor Ivan, whose church The Times is not naming because Jerardyn’s family members still reside there, said the church has a history of sheltering immigrants, including Afghans, Haitians, Mexicans and Venezuelans. The pastor said he lived in the U.S. for a decade without documents and knows firsthand the plight of migrants.

“They feel that everything is closing up around them,” he said. But the church’s role is to not stay silent, he said, and instead, to offer help and compassion.

That is why Jerardyn and her family began to slowly build a semblance of a normal life in the church’s basement. David and Milagro attended school nearby, where Milagro was praised for picking up English quickly.

But the family found everyday life stifling. In the basement, Jerardyn felt like they were hiding from Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Once, when the school notified her that immigration agents were nearby, she panicked, she said, wondering whether they would seize her children.

In the eight months they lived there, she had taken her children on public transit only six times. Once, on the metro, a homeless woman pulled her pants down in front of them and urinated. Another time, on a bus, a man became visibly irritated while she spoke Spanish to another passenger.

In the most jarring incident, Jerardyn and David watched from a bus window as immigration agents detained a woman. Suffering panic attacks, the boy would wake up crying from nightmares in which Jerardyn was the one arrested. She shed tears thinking of the stress she was placing on her children.

In the church, she spent several nights mulling over whether to leave the U.S. She would lie on the carpet, alone, in tears, and ask God for answers. But the choice became clear, she said, when David told her he wanted to return to Mexico.

In her request to close her asylum case at immigration court, she carefully wrote out a translated version of a plea to the judge.

“I am requesting voluntary departure because my children and I are experiencing a very stressful situation,” she wrote, recounting how she and David watched a woman get detained. Milagro loved going to school but suffered from anxiety too. “For me it is difficult to make that decision, but it is preferable to leave voluntarily and avoid many problems and even so in the future I can get my documents in the best way and return to this country legally. Thank you very much.”

The judge approved her request. Jesus, 23, and Jahir, 18, would continue to seek asylum and live at the church, with support from Pastor Ivan, who assured Jerardyn they would be safe.

When it came time to say goodbye as they boarded the bus for Tijuana, Jerardyn told Jesus to look out for Jahir. She hugged Jahir, caressed his head, and told him to listen to his older brother. Milagro pressed her small face into Jesus’ stomach and held him tightly until it was time to board. She then sobbed quietly in her mother’s arms as the bus pulled away.

There are no clear numbers yet on how many migrants have opted to self-deport this year. In a statement, Homeland Security Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said that “tens of thousands of illegal aliens have utilized the CBP Home app.” The app offers to pay for one-way tickets out of the U.S., along with a $1,000 “exit bonus.”

Kathleen Bush-Joseph, a policy analyst at the Migration Policy Institute, said the Trump administration has pushed hard to get people to leave on their own, as the White House appears to be falling short of its goal of 1 million deportations a year. The raids, courthouse arrests and threat of third-country removals are compounding a climate of fear.

“Some of the high-profile moves that this administration has taken [have] been aimed at trying to scare people into self-deporting,” she said.

At the immigration office in Tijuana, Jerardyn, Milagro and David were placed in a white room with one window and told they would be deported because Jerardyn did not have a visa to stay in Mexico.

As they waited, Jerardyn started to pace the small room, which was reminiscent of the one Venezuelan officials had placed her in when they extorted money from her. She had no luggage or phone. Mexican officials had taken them.

As the officials questioned her, she said, she maintained that she had committed no crimes and that she knew she had rights to travel into the country. Somehow, Milagro and David remained calm, eating tuna and crackers provided by the officials.

The family waited for more than three hours before the officials returned with news: They could stay. All were granted temporary status for a month while Jerardyn sought legal status. Officials fingerprinted them, staining their fingers green, took their pictures for documents that would allow them to travel freely and — 12 hours after leaving Los Angeles — let them leave for their flight to Mexico City.

Because of her preparations, Jerardyn had a job lined up at the hair salon where she previously worked. But a big question mark was Gonzalo. She had met him in Texcoco and they had become close. He showered her children with adoration and care. He asked to marry her, and she had said yes. But when she departed for the U.S. just days later, the distance became too difficult, and they broke off their engagement.

When she and the kids returned, Gonzalo met them at the airport in Mexico City, and the children hugged him in greeting.

Now that she was back, Jerardyn hoped that she and Gonzalo would rekindle their romance. At first they did, easily falling back together, holding hands while strolling through the streets.

At her new two-bedroom apartment, Jerardyn unloaded air mattresses that would serve as beds until she could afford real ones. She made a note of what she would need to buy. A fridge. A trash can and bath mat. A couch for the kids to relax on after school.

One Sunday, the family walked through Texcoco’s crowded central plaza, the air warm and scented with cooking meats and sweets. They navigated around the vendors and chatting families sitting on benches and enjoying snacks. Her children were smiling, and Jerardyn was at peace, something she hardly ever felt in the U.S.

She was finally back in “mi Texcoco,” she said. This feeling of tranquility reminded her of the first time she left Venezuela, when she no longer feared that the government would take her children from her.

“I feel free, complete peace of mind, knowing I’m not doing anything wrong, and I won’t be pursued,” she said.

During her first week back, Jerardyn and the children made the trek into Mexico City, where she found herself nearly asking for directions in English, only to remember that everyone spoke her language too.

She returned to the Basilica, her family’s first stop in Mexico City, and gave thanks to the Virgin Mary for guiding her safe journey. The three bowed their heads and knelt in prayer. David prayed for the well-being of his brothers.

That first week, she signed her children up for online English classes at a nearby academy. She worked on a client’s hair, her first gig. She also started therapy to begin sorting through everything she has lived through.

One crisp August morning, Jerardyn helped Milagro slip into the in-line skates Jesus had given her as a parting gift. The little girl had carried them in her pink backpack all the way from L.A., and she wanted to show them off.

In the safe, enclosed space of the apartment complex, where the buildings were painted vibrant shades of red, yellow and blue, Milagro went slowly at first, using a pillar to make turns and the wall as a stop. But as she settled into a flow, she began to speed up, making the turns smoothly on her own.

A few times, she fell with a huff. But with her mother looking on, she’d pick herself back up and keep going.