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Mireya Sandia lay in the bed with her eyes wide open. Her skin was pale and her white hair was almost gone. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer many years ago, but recently it spread to the brain and affected her speech. When we first met, in May she brought me closer and grabbed my hand with an incredibly strong grip and said as much as she could:
“I want to see my son again,” she then began to cry.
There was a knot in my throat so I held her hand and feared that she wouldn’t have enough time to see her son, Wilmer Vega Sandia.
Her health was the result of her son’s immigration to the United States. His detention and subsequent deportation to El Salvador’s maximum security prison known as Secott led me to her bedroom in a small Andean village.
The man was deported to a prison in Salvador
Now they’re free
Over the past four months, as part of a Propublica-led investigation in collaboration with the Texas Tribune, the Rebel Alliance Investigates and the Cazadores de Fake News (fake news hunters), I photographed the lives of five families whose son was imprisoned in El Salvador. I visited with mothers like Mireya Sandia and other relatives to see how their absence of loved ones had an impact on them.
I walked by them as they protested on the streets of Caracas, the capital of Venezuela. When the words were made that negotiations for the return of the man were ongoing, their hopes rose, so I looked at them.
I recorded my homecoming when the man suddenly returned.
Lina Ramos Hidalgo sits in a bedroom that belonged to her son, Juan Jose Ramos Ramos, while in custody at Secott. First picture: Mireya Sandia crys after having lunch at home while her son Wilmer is in custody at Cecot. Sandia has breast cancer, which spreads to the brain. Second image: Wilmer’s aunt Doris Sandia, her home. Crislida Bastidas played with his grandson Jared at the home of El Tokyoyo in Venezuela, and his son Jose Manuel Ramos Bastidas was taken into custody at CECOT.
Lina Ramos lives in a humble neighbourhood on the outskirts of Karaka and attended several marches I had filmed. I knew how tight money it was for the family and the incredible effort it took her to defend her son, Juan Jose Ramos Ramos. Lina said she would have to crowdfund and donate from churches, family and neighbors to buy tickets for a $2-dollar bus to the capital. The anguish of his imprisonment she told me, did not let her still.
Chris Rida Bastidas’ house was also modest. In the left corner, there are two large beds on the side of each other for several people to sleep. Her son, Jose Manuel Ramos Bastidas, was in Cecot for over three months before we met, but we could see her hope fade away as his imprisonment continued. Her sadness was visible, and she looked exhausted. She said she couldn’t sleep unless her one-year-old grandson, Jared, was with her. They cuddled together, holding a picture of Jose Manuel, a childlike hanging on the bed. The two were identical to the child, and she was clung to her grandchild to get closer to her son.
As more time went by, they sometimes slipped into talking about their sons in the past tense. Then they quickly correct themselves and say, “He is alive.”
I remember one mother on her lap.
Carmen Bonilla is waiting for her son to arrive near his Valencia home in Venezuela. Zoe Martinez plays with balloons used to decorate the house to celebrate the return of his uncle Juan Ramos. Center’s Lina Ramos embraces her family during a march in Caracas, celebrating the release of her son and other Venezuelan men held in Secott.
One morning I received a call telling me that a man was coming home. It was one of many mothers I’ve met in the past few months. I was on alert as this was not the first time I had received such a call. Wilmer’s aunt, Doris Sandia, called me and asked me several times if I was sure the man would be home. She was wary of breaking her heart again. But this time it was true.
By the time I left my house, the families who could afford to come to Caracas were already marching downtown. This time they were celebrating.
I met Lina Ramos, but barely recognized her. She had a broad smile I had never seen before. She held me tightly, and was relieved to see the familiar face behind dozens of cameras. I walked next to her for miles.
The next day I was at Lina’s house at sunrise, waiting to finally film her son. Lina has received $20 donations from her family and neighbors, and she used the money to decorate the house. She stewed chicken in her son’s favorites, rice and plantain. Lina didn’t want to call and call in case Juan made a call. She didn’t leave the house as rumors were circulating that if no one was in the house, the police officers escorting the men would not drop them off. Lina was forced to stand still for the first time in four months.
Lina’s granddaughter grabbed me with her hands and helped me choose flowers to welcome my uncle. They spent hours making flower arrangements, then tied yellow, blue and red balloons into the arch. However, time passed and Juan did not arrive. The balloons began to pop out in the heat. By the time I left, the flowers had withered and the balloon arch was in the middle.
Carmen Bonilla had to cancel from one of her jobs – she drives a taxi, sometimes buying cheese and then reselling it – in case someone brings her son Andry home. The last few days when the man had returned to Venezuela but not yet home, felt longer than the others. No one dared to leave the house or call. Carmen looks at her cell phone and remembers watching a video of the man singing a song on the bus after he returned to Venezuela. Carmen was happy, but confused. “He has to be very happy singing,” she said. “Andry isn’t. He’s very serious.”
I think she realized at that moment that her son she raised might not be the same person she was back home. What happened to them in the months of prison probably changed them forever.
First Image: A few days after his release from Cecot, Juan José Ramos crying as he remembers his experiences in prison at his home in Guatia, Venezuela. Second image: Sala Martinez holds a flower arrangement to celebrate Ramos’ return.
When Juan Jose Ramos arrived at Lina’s house, he wept and pointed to the peeled paint. He said he wanted to give his mother a more decent home. That was one of the reasons he went to the US in prison, and he asked the security guards to end his life rather than forcing him to live that way anymore. Hearing her son spoke about his experience, she tried to understand the weight of his words.
I went back to photograph Maya Sandia again. This time she wept with joy while her son hugged her. Like his mother, he spent four months of daily thoughts that he might not go home in time to say goodbye to her.
She grabbed my hand again and I leaned forward to hear her. She has become so weak in the last four months that I was able to barely understand her words: “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” During this time, in El Salvador, it was discovered that not only were each man losing time, but also a loved one. They had missed major life moments that they could never recover. The man didn’t just say he was tortured over the past four months. Their family said they too.
As fireworks exploded in the town of Umkena and residents surrounded Wilmer Vega, Maya Sandia said it “feeled like an endless night.” Wilmer fell to his lap as if he could barely carry the joy of the moment.
Several men said the guards told them every day they were worthless and no one was looking for them. I thought of those words and wondered what Wilmer Vega was thinking when people from his hometown filled the streets to greet him.
After months of detention, the caravan runs to his hometown of Umkena, Venezuela, and follows Wilmer Vega Sandia. Wilmer Vega Sandia kisses her mother Mileja after seeing her in person for the first time since he was released from custody.
The man said they returned to the deeply hurt home. Most of the men I met had trouble sleeping, drinking water or leaving the house. Wilmer shed tears, saying he had a panic attack on his first walk along busy commercial streets. In many cases, celebrations were bittersweet. The men were at home, but they were hurt.
I thought this would be the end of the chapter and the long-awaited reunion. But life is even more subtle than that. When viewed and heard from these men, the path before they were steep became clear. They’re back in Venezuela after losing a bit of what they’ve made before. Most of them said they lost everything while in their US detention or in prison in El Salvador.
In many cases, these men left Venezuela nearly a decade ago. Their beds, friends, employers, even children are no longer here. They returned with no equipment to resume their work, and in many ways, only the clothes they wore to the country they had to leave. When asked about the future, they had no answers.
Carmen Bonilla hugs her son Andry Blanco after returning home from months of detention.
All this made me think about the Venezuelan longing for opportunity, security and freedom. It makes sense for millions of people to imagine living in the United States. Many Venezuelans supported President Donald Trump’s policies, particularly after his first term. I don’t know how much this episode will change their views, but it was definitely a calm moment for many.
Still, thousands of Venezuelans pack their suitcases. Boats, planes and buses continue to depart for other destinations, from Colombia to Peru, Brazil to Spain. They are full of people who want to give their children medical care, buy their mothers a cleaner home, and give their parents cancer treatment.
But it may not change the questions many Venezuelans are asking themselves now and asking each other.
Wilmer Vega Sandia kisses her mother.
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