Caracas Chronicles

What happens when the world decides you no longer belong anywhere? To be legally invisible, unheard, unprotected and unwelcome. Tom Hanks in The Terminal reminds me of the position many migrants find themselves in. In the movie, his character, Viktor Navorski, arrives at JFK, only to be stopped at immigration and informed that his home country has descended into civil war. Suddenly stateless, with no government to support him and no valid passport, he is trapped within the confines of the airport, unable to return home or apply for asylum, temporary status, or any other protection. Navorski is deemed “unacceptable” by the system.

Throughout the movie, Hanks’s character scrapes for food, collects quarters from luggage carts to afford a meal, sleeps in an unfinished construction area, and even takes under-the-table work with a construction crew. Despite its lighthearted tone, the film follows his struggle, culminating in a bittersweet resolution: he is allowed to briefly enter New York City to fulfill a personal mission—laying his father’s ashes at a jazz club—before returning to JFK to board a flight home.

As a child, this was my favorite movie. But I never imagined that, years later, I would come to understand that struggle myself, albeit in a different way.

Over the past two weeks, being a Venezuelan in the U.S. has felt like enduring blow after blow. As someone who exists between two countries, I can’t help but reflect on the grand narrative repeated time and again—a story of valor and honor, where the United States is portrayed as the beacon of democracy and freedom. This idea is deeply ingrained, particularly in Latin America, where even the thought of applying for a tourist visa to see Mickey Mouse or the Statue of Liberty comes with an unspoken belief in American exceptionalism. And while there is some truth to this perception, the reality is that the U.S. has maintained its image of grandeur largely because it never acts without self-interest. There is no benevolent savior behind Uncle Sam—every move is calculated to serve the nation’s own priorities.

For many, The Terminal is no longer just a movie—it is a reflection of their lives, trapped in a system that refuses to acknowledge them.

Venezuelans, unfortunately, are not of strategic interest to the United States, and the Trump administration has made that abundantly clear. On Sunday, the administration ended Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for over 300,000 Venezuelans, leaving asylum cases in limbo and opening the door to further attacks on their protections. Meanwhile, U.S. envoy Richard Grenell engaged in diplomatic talks with Nicolás Maduro, resulting in an agreement: Maduro would accept Venezuelan deportees in exchange for the release of six American detainees. This comes just weeks after Edmundo González met with former President Biden in the Oval Office to discuss Venezuela’s democratic transition and the extension of protective status for migrants in the U.S.

Beyond the grand diplomatic narratives, the reality for many Venezuelans is stark: they are at a crossroads, with no legal pathway to remain in the U.S., no hope of a democratic transition in sight, and an opposition that has lost its most powerful ally in Washington. Meanwhile, Venezuela offers no stability, and human rights abuses are likely to worsen. 

For many, The Terminal is no longer just a movie—it is a reflection of their lives, trapped in a system that refuses to acknowledge them.

The reality is that Washington is isolating itself from its traditional sphere of influence and reshaping global perceptions of the United States. Once regarded as the ultimate enforcer of democracy abroad, this country is increasingly seen as a declining power—one that is no longer taken as seriously. The Trump administration’s talks with Maduro contradict decades of U.S. rhetoric condemning leftist dictatorships in the region. By publicly engaging with a leader widely recognized as illegitimate, Washington is signaling to autocrats everywhere that if they stall, negotiate, and offer something of value, they too can secure legitimacy. 

On an individual level, there is an undeniable sense of losing control over one’s own life—something I have felt firsthand. Venezuela is no longer the home we left; it has become an unrecognizable place, void of a future. Worse still, it represents the looming possibility that everything we have built abroad—our careers, education, relationships, and dreams—could be lost if forced to return. Many Venezuelans have spent years building lives in new countries, falling in love, pursuing education, forging communities, and envisioning futures far from the place that once failed them. Now, those futures hang in uncertainty, subject to the whims of political calculations that seem to forget the human cost of these decisions.

A significant number of deported Venezuelans will face detention, arrest, torture, or even forced disappearance—punished for their past statements, political affiliations, or mere defection from the regime.

The region will face the consequences of mass deportations, struggling with a difficult reintegration process due to inadequate infrastructure and limited job opportunities. At the same time, a growing influx of Venezuelan migrants—both first-time refugees and those forced to flee again—will further strain already overburdened systems.Thus, much like Navorski in The Terminal, Venezuelans are now “unacceptable”—both in their own country and abroad. With no functional opposition to counter the regime and an international community that increasingly deems Maduro legitimate, they find themselves trapped. Deemed unwanted and unworthy abroad, they are left, at least for the next 60 days and likely beyond, in limbo—stuck, like Navorski in JFK, waiting for a change that may never come.