Along a remote stretch of West African coastline, a group of Latin American migrants find themselves stranded in a country they had never heard of, deported there by U.S. immigration authorities as part of an expanding strategy to send removable individuals to nations with which they have no connection. Most had won legal protections in American courts against return to their home countries, yet those protections proved insufficient to shield them from removal to Liberia — a nation founded by freed American slaves, now asked to receive the displaced of another hemisphere. Their predicament rai
Trump administration deports Latin American migrants to Liberia, leaving them stranded
Deportees are separated from spouses and children in the U.S., with some facing potential persecution if returned to their home countries; a 21-year-old woman and others are stranded in a foreign country without work authorization or permanent status.
I feel far away, on the other side of the world.
Mark
So the Trump administration is sending people to Liberia—a country they've never been to, where they don't speak the language, where they have no legal status. How is that even legal?
Mimi
The administration says it's using "all lawful options" under immigration law. The deportees had entered the country illegally, so technically they can be removed. The twist is that most of them had won legal protections in U.S. courts—judges found they'd face persecution if sent home. But those protections didn't prevent removal to a third country.
Luke
Right, but that's the gap worth naming. The courts said "don't send them to Honduras" or "don't send them to Venezuela." The administration responded by sending them to Liberia instead. Is that what the law actually allows? We don't know yet—no court has ruled on it.
Mimi
And the deportees weren't told where they were going. Paola Ferreira Dos Santos found out when the plane landed. That's not a small detail.
Mark
What's Liberia's stake in this? Why would they agree?
Mimi
They announced it as a humanitarian gesture. They said they'd accept up to 1,200 deportees. But so far only fifteen have arrived. Over thirty countries have made similar agreements under Trump administration pressure—many of them poor, unstable countries.
Luke
"Humanitarian gesture" is how Liberia framed it publicly. We should be careful about that language. The deportees themselves don't want to stay there. They can't work legally. The IOM is providing basic necessities, which suggests the country isn't equipped to absorb them on its own.
Mark
So these people are stuck. They can't go home because they'll be persecuted. They can't stay in the U.S. They're in Liberia with no work authorization and no future there.
Mimi
That's the situation for Elvis Rodriguez Venturas, who has four children in Texas—two of them U.S. citizens. His wife is there. He was working legally under his court protection. Now he's in a hotel in West Africa.
Luke
And we should note: CBS News is the first U.S. television network to actually find and interview these deportees in person. That means we don't have a full picture of how many people this is affecting or what the long-term plan is. The State Department won't comment on the details of these agreements.
Mark
What happens next for them?
Mimi
Some are thinking about going back to their home countries despite the danger. Others are hoping another country will take them. They're in limbo.
Luke
And that limbo is the point worth watching. This policy is brand new. We don't know how it scales, what other countries will do, or whether courts will eventually challenge it.
O Pulso
- At least fifteen Latin American migrants were flown to Liberia in August without being told their destination — some learned where they were only when the plane landed in Monrovia.
- Most had previously won rulings from U.S. immigration courts finding they faced persecution or torture if returned home, yet those protections did not prevent their removal to a third country entirely foreign to them.
- Spouses and U.S. citizen children remain in Texas and elsewhere in the United States, while the deportees sit in a hotel on the Liberian coast with no work authorization, no legal pathway forward, and no clear way back.
- Over thirty nations have now agreed under U.S. pressure to accept third-country deportees, many of them countries already burdened by conflict and poverty, raising urgent humanitarian and legal alarms.
- The deportees are technically free to move within Liberia, but face a stark impasse: they cannot safely return home, cannot re-enter the United States, and have no desire to remain permanently in a country whose language and culture are entirely unfamiliar to them.
Along a remote stretch of West African coastline, a group of Latin American migrants find themselves stranded in a country they had never heard of, deported there by U.S. immigration authorities as part of an expanding strategy to send removable individuals to nations with which they have no connection. Most had won legal protections in American courts against return to their home countries, yet those protections proved insufficient to shield them from removal to Liberia — a nation founded by freed American slaves, now asked to receive the displaced of another hemisphere. Their predicament raises enduring questions about the boundaries of state power, the meaning of legal protection, and what obligations a nation bears toward those it has uprooted.
CBS News found fifteen people living in a hotel on a remote stretch of West African coastline — none of them Liberian, most not even from the same continent. They arrived from Brazil, Colombia, Guatemala, Honduras, Venezuela, Cameroon, and Eritrea, deported to Africa's oldest republic by U.S. immigration officials as part of an escalating enforcement strategy: sending deportees to countries where they have no family, no language, and no legal standing.
Elvis Rodriguez Venturas, a Honduran construction worker from Texas, learned his destination only after boarding the plane. An immigration judge had previously ruled that returning him to Honduras would expose him to harm. That ruling did not protect him from Liberia. His four children — two of them U.S. citizens — ask him every day when he is coming home. Paola Ferreira Dos Santos, twenty-one years old and the only woman among the Latin American deportees, discovered where she was being sent when the plane touched down in Monrovia. "I was the first to get off the plane, and they said, 'Welcome to Liberia. You're in Africa,'" she recalled in Portuguese.
Most of those deported had won legal protections in American immigration courts — findings that they faced persecution or torture if sent back to their home countries. Yet because they lacked permanent immigration status, the Trump administration treated them as eligible for removal regardless. The vast majority had no criminal convictions beyond immigration violations. The Department of Homeland Security described the broader effort as "the largest deportation operation in history."
Liberia agreed in August to accept up to 1,200 third-country deportees, framing the arrangement as humanitarian. The deportees are not detained — they are free to leave the hotel — but freedom of movement offers little when there is nowhere to go. More than thirty nations have now agreed under U.S. pressure to accept such deportees, many of them African countries already strained by conflict and poverty. Carlos Tellez Sanchez, a Venezuelan who had been working in the Dallas area before his ICE detention, remains in Liberia while his wife and American-born child stay in Texas. "Returning to Venezuela is not an option for me," he said. "I feel I could be in danger."
Some deportees are weighing a return to homelands they fear. Others hope a third nation will take them in. All remain suspended between a country that expelled them and countries they dare not re-enter — separated from their families, unable to work, and waiting for a resolution that has not yet taken shape.
CBS News traveled to Liberia last month and found fifteen people living in a three-story hotel on a remote stretch of West African coastline. None of them are Liberian. Most are not even from the same continent. They come from Brazil, Colombia, Guatemala, Honduras, Venezuela, Cameroon, and Eritrea—deported to Africa's oldest republic by U.S. immigration officials as part of an escalating strategy under President Trump's immigration enforcement: sending deportees to countries where they have no family, no language, no legal standing, and no way home.
Elvis Rodriguez Venturas, a Honduran who worked in construction in Texas, learned his destination only after boarding the plane. "I'm concerned," he told CBS News. "I feel far away, on the other side of the world." His four children—two of them U.S. citizens—ask him every day when he's coming back. His wife is still in Texas. An immigration judge had previously ruled that sending him back to Honduras would expose him to harm, granting him legal protection to work in the United States. That protection did not save him from deportation to Liberia.
Paola Ferreira Dos Santos, twenty-one years old and the only woman among the Latin American deportees, discovered where she was being sent when the plane touched down in Monrovia on August 20. "I was the first to get off the plane, and they said, 'Welcome to Liberia. You're in Africa,'" she recalled in Portuguese. Arin Garcia Yepes, a Colombian, had never heard of the country before his removal. "I didn't even know it existed," Rodriguez Venturas added. None of the deportees were told in advance where they would be sent, and none were given a chance to contest the decision in court.
Most of those interviewed had won legal protections in American immigration courts—determinations that they faced persecution or torture if returned to their home countries. Yet under the Trump administration's zero-tolerance approach, these limited protections proved insufficient. The deportees still lacked valid permanent immigration status, making them targets for removal despite the courts' findings. CBS News obtained the names of those sent to Liberia and found that the vast majority had no criminal convictions beyond immigration violations such as entering the country illegally. The Department of Homeland Security, in a statement, said those in the country illegally could choose to self-deport and receive a $3,000 stipend, and emphasized that the administration was "utilizing all lawful options to carry out the largest deportation operation in history."
In August, Liberia's government announced it had agreed to accept up to 1,200 "third-country" deportees from the United States, describing the arrangement as humanitarian. So far, only one group has arrived—the August 20 flight carrying fifteen people. Liberia is a nation of more than 5 million people, roughly the size of Tennessee, founded in the nineteenth century by freed American slaves. The country is not detaining the deportees; they are technically free to leave the hotel, though they have been advised not to venture far for their own safety. The United Nations' International Organization for Migration is providing basic necessities.
Yet freedom of movement offers little comfort when there is nowhere to go. More than thirty nations have now agreed to accept third-country deportees under pressure from the Trump administration, many of them African countries struggling with armed conflict, political instability, and poverty—places like the Central African Republic and South Sudan. Liberia has said the deportees can claim asylum there, but none of those interviewed expressed interest in staying permanently. They cite poverty, cultural distance, and the absence of work authorization.
Carlos Tellez Sanchez, a Venezuelan who was selling cars and delivering food in the Dallas area before his detention by ICE late last year, remains in Liberia while his wife and their American-born child stay in Texas. "Returning to Venezuela is not an option for me," he said. "I feel I could be in danger if I return to my home country." Some deportees are considering going back to their home countries despite the risks. Others are hoping another nation will accept them. All remain in legal limbo, separated from their families, unable to work, and trapped between a country that deported them and homelands they fear.
Citações Notáveis
I'm concerned. I feel far away, on the other side of the world.— Elvis Rodriguez Venturas, Honduran deportee
Returning to Venezuela is not an option for me. I feel I could be in danger if I return to my home country.— Carlos Tellez Sanchez, Venezuelan deportee
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