Homecoming

Homecoming 

It was afternoon on September 11th and everyone was moving: running errands, checking messages, trying to stay calm - but underneath it all, there was this shared disbelief: he’s actually coming home.

The aunts had been camped out at the airport since morning, trading off with Jorge and Christian so no one would miss his arrival. His mother was calling from Spain every hour. Between group chats and calls, it was mostly about keeping everyone coordinated, fed, and hopeful. We’d come too far to lose focus now.

However, the world didn’t cease its rotation. News had recently emerged of Charlie Kirk’s assassination, leading to concerns of potential airspace disruptions or flight delays. I briefly pondered whether this event could impact deportation transfers. Despite its absurdity, given our past experiences, no scenario seemed too outlandish.

Around 5 p.m., my phone buzzed - Anna was calling me. She said the next few words that I would've paid her a million dollars not to say: "Daniel, something is wrong. He's still in Krome".

She’d been there earlier and said a guard showed his name still listed on the roster. She wasn’t sure if that meant he was physically there or if the system hadn’t updated yet. “It could be electronic delay,” she conceded, but I could hear in her voice she didnt actually believe that. 

The family chat exploded. Everyone was asking the same thing: What does that mean? Did he miss it? Is he still there? I checked his status on the detainee page. It listed Krome. I had sent several messages to him but remembered he may still have been unable to respond if he was in medical custody.  

Understanding what waas going to happen and feeling a mix of sympathy, exhaustion and defensiveness, his Mom started to call. She wanted answers, this was horrible, why did they not care about him or his family and as I'd unfortunately learned, occasionally when really bad news happened, his Mom lashed out - and it was to either myself or to Anna who she thought wasn't doing enough. 

Meanwhile, at the airport, no one knew what to expect. The authorities hadn’t told us where deportees arrived. Was there a separate gate, a private section? Nobody would say. The only instruction was to “wait near international arrivals.”

So they did.

From 7 p.m. until almost 2 a.m., Jorge and the aunts waited. Christian rotated in to bring food and water. They spoke with whoever they could find -airport staff, customs officers but no one had any information. Anytime someone suggested they leave and come back, Mom would plead:" "just 5 more minutes" - I got it. We all got it. 

Finally, a security guard pointed them toward a small area where humanitarian volunteers sometimes stood by. That’s how they met a representative from the Red Cross.

The man was kind and direct. He told them that deportation flights usually arrived on Thursdays, sometimes on Fridays, occasionally on Tuesdays. “ICE doesn’t share flight manifests with us,” he said. “Sometimes we get them late. But if we see your friend’s name, we’ll let you know.”

He gave Jorge his number and told him to text whenever they needed updates. “We’ll keep an eye out,” he promised. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Friday morning came, and still nothing. His record continued to say Krome Detention Center. The same static page, unchanged since the day of the supposed flight but it did feel slightly better that there was some kind of process on the end point. 

The weekend stretched on. The tension in Bogotá was palpable. Jorge and Christian hadn’t really spoken in years, though they’d once been close - Christian had actually introduced me to him. Now they were back in the same space, both trying to help, both exhausted. There were misunderstandings, awkward silences, too much time to think. Jorge had already taken days off work, canceled travel plans, and was starting to feel trapped by the uncertainty.

I tried to keep everyone grounded, but we were all unraveling in different ways.

Then, Sunday morning, something shifted.
When I checked the ICE locator, his status had changed.

ICE Detention - In Transit.

Two words, but they meant everything. Anna noticed too. She fired off a string of emails asking where he’d been transferred, what his route was, when he’d depart.

By Monday morning, she got an answer “He’s in Louisiana awaiting deportation.”

No timeline. No manifest. No reason for the delay. But after four days of silence, it felt like progress.

We then got not one but two confirmations - a friend of a friend of a family member worked for the Colombia ombudsman and the Colombian Embassy both contacted us on Monday evening "we've confirmed Enrique is on the flight arriving Thursday evening" 

The family regrouped immediately. The aunts extended their Airbnb. Jorge stayed.

Christian rearranged his schedule for another week. Everyone went back into overdrive buying food, clean clothes, a few small comforts to make the transition easier.

And then, at last, the confirmation came. On Wednesday, the Colombian Chancellery emailed again, showing a portion of the manifest - and there it was - Enrique’s name was officially on the September 18 arrival manifest confirmed by both the Chancellery and the Embassy. That was the one.

This time, there was no doubt, no rumor, no delay notice. His name was there. He was coming home. The group chat exploded with energy. Everyone was giddy - sending memes, emojis, half-serious jokes about how long it had taken. Apologzing and forgiving each other and celebrating that this wa finally going to end. II told them, “The moment he lands, tell him to send me a video.” His aunts had made banners that read Bienvenido a Casa Enrique. Jorge brought balloons. One of the aunts rehearsed the moment on her phone so she could send it to his mother the instant he walked out.

Christian and I were texting too, a little wistful, a little warm. He said, “The last time I was getting an Airbnb ready like this was for your birthday, back when we were together.” We both sat with that memory for a minute.lost in nostalgia.

At 9 p.m., the flight was officially in the air. By 10:30, the Red Cross confirmed it had landed with 112 passengers on board. We knew Enrique would be processed last since he had no ID.

We waited.

Every few minutes, new updates rolled in - first twenty people, then forty, then seventy.

Eventually we were told 9 people were left. Then 6.
His mom and I joked that of course he’d be last. He always loved a dramatic entrance.

And then came the update that froze us all - they closed the gate. He wasn’t on the flight.

For hours, everyone sat in silence, scrolling, refreshing, waiting for someone to say there’d been a mistake. Finally, around 4 a.m., the Colombian Chancellery sent a short, clinical note:

"We send you our deepest apologies, finally someone told us. He and several other people were removed from the flight prior to boarding. No information was provided"

And just like that, the excitement that had carried us all week collapsed into that same familiar quiet cold, heavy, and cruelly recognizable.