We spend our days shut in, alone with our thoughts, our problems, and the constant worry
In a move that tests the boundaries of international refugee law, the Trump administration has deported fifteen Latin American asylum seekers — some holding active legal protections — to the Democratic Republic of Congo, a nation thousands of miles from their lives, their families, and their languages. These individuals, who fled violence in Colombia, Peru, and Ecuador, now find themselves confined in a Kinshasa hotel, caught between a country they never knew and homelands they cannot safely return to. The arrangement, framed by officials as lawful and cooperative, raises enduring questions about what obligations powerful nations carry toward those who seek shelter within their borders — and how far the reach of enforcement can extend before it becomes exile.
- Fifteen people with pending asylum cases and, in some instances, court-ordered protections against torture were placed on planes to Central Africa with little warning, some learning their destination only hours before departure.
- Confined largely to hotel rooms in Kinshasa with unreliable water, frequent power cuts, unfamiliar food, and no shared language with the surrounding population, deportees report mounting illness and psychological deterioration.
- Human rights lawyers in DR Congo are challenging the legal foundation of the agreement itself, arguing it has no basis under international refugee law — while families left behind in the United States have no clear timeline for reunion or resolution.
- Deportees face a choice with no good answer: remain indefinitely confined in an unfamiliar country, or return to the very violence that drove them to seek asylum in the first place.
Jorge Cubillos had spent eight years in Florida after fleeing violence in Colombia. He had a work permit, UN torture protection, a wife, and four children. Then, without warning, he was flown to the Democratic Republic of Congo — a country 10,700 kilometers away he had never seen.
Cubillos is one of fifteen people from Colombia, Peru, and Ecuador deported to DR Congo last month under a new third-country agreement signed by the Trump administration. The group includes people with pending asylum applications, court-ordered protections, and years of established life in the United States. They are now confined to a hotel on the outskirts of Kinshasa, separated from their families, with no clear sense of when or whether they will leave.
Carlos Rodelo learned his destination hours before takeoff, despite a court ruling that he could remain in the country. Marta — whose name was changed for safety — was arrested at her Texas home, held in solitary confinement without food or water, vaccinated against yellow fever, and flown to Africa. The journey for many lasted over twenty-five hours, bound at the waist, hands, and feet, with little food or water.
The conditions in Kinshasa are difficult. Deportees report fever, vomiting, contaminated water, and power cuts. Though the hotel has recreational facilities, the group says they have barely used them — let out only a handful of times, always under guard. Most days are spent in their rooms. "We spend our days shut in, alone with our thoughts, our problems, and the constant worry about what's going to happen to us," Cubillos said.
Human rights lawyer Hubert Tshiswaka argues the agreement has no legal basis under international refugee law. The deportees themselves say they committed no crimes in the United States — only immigration violations. Yet they now face an impossible choice: remain confined in a country where they are sick and isolated, or return home to the threats they originally fled. One Colombian has already chosen to go back, unable to bear the situation. For most, that option is not truly safe. As the first group under this agreement, they are watching to see whether more will follow — and whether anyone will challenge a policy that moves asylum seekers across the globe as though borders were merely logistical problems to be solved.
Jorge Cubillos had spent eight years building a life in Florida after fleeing violence in Colombia. He had a work permit. He had been granted protection under the UN Convention Against Torture. He had a wife and four children. Then, without warning, he was put on a plane to the Democratic Republic of Congo—a country 10,700 kilometers away that he had never seen and barely knew existed.
Cubillos is one of fifteen people from Colombia, Peru, and Ecuador deported to DR Congo last month under a new agreement signed by the Trump administration. The group includes asylum seekers whose applications were still pending, people who say they had court-ordered protection, and individuals who spent months or years establishing roots in the United States. What unites them is that they are now in Kinshasa, in a mid-range hotel on the city's outskirts, separated from their families and uncertain whether they will ever leave.
The deportations represent the first wave of a controversial third-country agreement—a centerpiece of Trump's campaign promise to conduct mass deportations. The administration argues the removals are lawful and mutually beneficial. DR Congo's government says it accepted the migrants out of commitment to human dignity and international solidarity, and that the US is covering the costs of their stay. But the deportees and human rights advocates paint a starkly different picture. Carlos Rodelo learned his destination only hours before takeoff. He had spent eight months in detention in Louisiana despite a court ruling that he could remain in the country. When ICE agents told him he was being sent to Congo, he said he didn't even know what that was. Marta, whose name has been changed for safety, was picked up at her Texas home when agents arrived to fit her with a GPS monitor. She spent fourteen months in detention during her legal battle, then was released under supervision. Less than two months later, she was arrested again, held in solitary confinement without food or water, vaccinated against yellow fever, and flown to Africa.
The conditions the deportees describe are grim. Cubillos reported fever, vomiting, and diarrhea within days of arrival. A month later, the group remains confined mostly to their rooms, getting sick on food they cannot eat, without clear information about how long they will stay or when they might leave. Power cuts are frequent. Drinking water is unreliable. Although the hotel has a football pitch, tennis court, and Olympic-sized swimming pool, the deportees say they have used these facilities almost not at all—they have been let out of the premises only a handful of times, always with security guards. When pressed about the amenities, Cubillos was blunt: "We've only used the pool once, on a really hot day. Most of the time, we're stuck in our rooms." Thousands of miles from home, in a country where few people speak English or Spanish, where the main languages are French and Lingala, there is simply nothing to do. "We spend our days shut in, alone with our thoughts, our problems, and the constant worry about what's going to happen to us," he said.
The psychological toll is mounting. Marta spoke of the emotional weight of not knowing what comes next, of the misinformation circulating online that paints them as criminals who deserve their fate. She emphasized that none of them had been accused of crimes in the United States—only of immigration violations. Rodelo had been granted CAT protection by a Maryland judge in February 2025, but when he was summoned to sign documents at an immigration office months later, three ICE agents were waiting. "They told me they were taking me one way or another," he recalled. The DHS later said he had been issued a final removal order for violating parole terms—the same month he says he received protection.
Hubert Tshiswaka, a human rights lawyer and director of the Human Rights Research Institute in DR Congo, argues the agreement violates international commitments on refugee protection. "There is no legal basis to bring people from other countries to the Congo, especially from the United States," he told the BBC. The deportees themselves deny any wrongdoing. All of them say they have done nothing illegal in the US beyond immigration violations. Yet they face an impossible choice: stay in a country where they are confined, isolated, and sick, or return home to the violence and threats they fled in the first place.
Cubillos said the deportees have been told they can either remain in the hotel or go back home. One Colombian has already decided to return, at his own expense, unable to bear the situation any longer. But for most, that option is not truly available. "If I had to choose between the Congo and Barranquilla, where I'm from, I would choose Barranquilla, because here I'm not doing anything," Cubillos said. "But going back to Barranquilla would put my life at risk." One woman, who asked to remain anonymous, questioned whether she would ever feel safe returning to the United States. "After everything that's happened and everything I've suffered, who can assure me that I won't go through this again and that in the future they won't send me to another country?" she asked. The journey itself had been brutal—more than twenty-five hours bound at the waist, hands, and feet, with only an apple, some chips, and a bottle of water. "It was terrible," Cubillos said. As the first group under this agreement, these fifteen people are now watching to see whether more will follow, and whether the international community will challenge a policy that appears to treat asylum seekers as cargo to be moved across the globe.
Citas Notables
I never thought I would end up in Africa. I thought they were just threats.— Jorge Cubillos, Colombian deportee
When they told me they were sending me to the Congo, I told them I didn't even know what that was or where it was.— Carlos Rodelo, Peruvian deportee
There is no legal basis to bring people from other countries to the Congo, especially from the United States.— Hubert Tshiswaka, human rights lawyer and director of the Human Rights Research Institute in DR Congo
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why would the Trump administration choose the Democratic Republic of Congo specifically for this agreement?
The source doesn't explain the reasoning behind that choice. What we know is that the US brokered a peace deal between DR Congo and Rwanda just last year, so there may have been diplomatic groundwork. But the real answer—why Congo over other countries—isn't addressed in what these deportees or officials have said publicly.
These people had legal protections, court rulings in their favor. How does the administration justify overriding those?
The DHS statement says everyone received full due process and that removals were lawful. But the deportees' accounts suggest a gap between what the law says on paper and what happened in practice. Rodelo had a judge's ruling granting him CAT protection, yet he was detained when he showed up to sign documents. The administration says he had a final removal order from February—the same month he claims he got protection. It's a timing question that doesn't quite add up.
What strikes you most about their descriptions of the hotel?
The disconnect between what it looks like from outside and what it actually is. There's a swimming pool, tennis courts, decent facilities. But Cubillos says they've used the pool once. They're confined to rooms most of the time. It's a gilded cage—comfortable enough on the surface, but it's still a cage. And the isolation is psychological torture. You're in a city where almost no one speaks your language, thousands of miles from your family, with no information about your future.
Do any of them have a path forward?
Not that's visible. They've been given two options: stay in the hotel indefinitely, or go home to the countries they fled. One person chose to go back at his own expense. But for most, returning home means returning to the violence they escaped. It's a false choice. They're trapped between two impossible places.
What does this mean for the next wave of deportations?
This is the test case. If the international community doesn't challenge it, if courts don't intervene, then the Trump administration has established a precedent. They can move people anywhere, to any country willing to accept US funding. These fifteen people are the proof of concept.