The Countdown

The Countdown

After the court date, when the asylum was revoked and both sides waived the appeal, I figured it would take weeks before anything else happened. September had just begun and the air grew slightly cooler, signalling the gradual the end to the year. 

The system never moved fast why would it start now? With everything completed aside from finalizing his passport, there was nothing else to really do except wait. 

So when Anna emailed the deportation officer just to “check status” and got a reply an hour later saying deportation scheduled for September 11, I thought it had to be a mistake. I reread it twice before it sank in. I called Anna first and we laughed in disbelief and excitement together, then I called his Mom. 

She whooped and cried in excitement before I even finished the sentence. I didn’t blame her. I just sat there half-laughing, half in disbelief. After everything, after months of bureaucracy, letters, and unanswered forms, the transfers, the difficulties, the endless cycles of trying to understand what to do - and suddenly going to be over in a week?

 I told her not to celebrate yet, that until he was literally on a plane, nothing was real. Still, we both allowed ourselves to exhale for the first time in months.

We debated whether to tell him. In the end, I sent him a short message:“I have a few updates on your case.” He didn’t respond.

A few days later, late Saturday night, he called, though I didn’t notice it until the next morning. His messages came in around 1 a.m. He said another detainee had attacked him and that his eye was being treated. They were moving him to medical isolation and he wouldn’t have access to his communication account for a few days. He said not to worry, which of course only made me worry. 

Anna confirmed the report the next day - it was documented, photographed, and wouldn’t delay the deportation. She promised to visit him Wednesday evening to check on him and tell him the news in person. When she called me afterward, she sounded lighter than she had in months. “I told him,” she said, half laughing. “He leaves tomorrow.” She said he was grinning, overjoyed, even joking with her. “I told him I have court here tomorrow morning and I better not see him,” 

Then came the whiplash.

He was leaving - but going where? Bogotá, a city he hadn’t lived in for years. No family there. No job, no ID, no money, no clothes. Everything he’d owned had been thrown out of his Airbnb months ago. He was about to land in a city of ten million people with absolutely nothing.

The first person I called was Christian, remember him? The guy I had just realized I was in love with 8 years ago on Halloween in Bogota, the one that introduced me to Enrique? 

That was… an awkward conversation. He knew the broad outlines - that Enrique and I had had reconnected - and that I had dated him a few years ago.  I had to catch him up quickly, not just on that, but on everything that had happened since - the arrest, the months in detention, the transfers, the attorney, the news that he was suddenly being deported in less than a week.

I braced for hesitation, but he didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine,” he said. “Tell me what needs to be done.”

That’s the thing about Christian - under all his self-deprecating jokes and dramatics, he has this deeply moral center. He knew this wasn’t about anything except getting Enrique home safely. He even took a few days off work to help coordinate logistics in Bogotá.

Then I called Jorge (the one who told me when Enrique was arrested) who had been one of Christian’s best friends back when everyone was in Bogota. The three of us had spent years intertwined with several others of their friend group: nights out, heartbreaks, house parties, that kind of era.

They hadn’t spoken in a long time, but Jorge appeared to be flying in from Spain for a work conference. When he learned Enrique was being deported the next day, he canceled everything. He said, “Tell me where I need to be.”

Suddenly, everyone was moving.

His mother started coordinating with the aunts, who were sending what little they could. Christian found an Airbnb near Simón Bolívar Park that would accept cash. Jorge offered to pick Enrique up from the airport. Someone located an old phone, wiped it clean, and packed it with a Colombian SIM card. I wired over money for groceries and basic supplies.

It was this strange flurry of activity that felt almost joyful - the adrenaline of a project that finally had an end. We couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

Anna was working late that same night, visiting other clients, but she made time to see Enrique one last time before his flight. She wanted to make sure he was okay and to tell him he was leaving the next day. In this ordeal, this was one of the few times I think back on with a smile. She described the shock and total elated disbelief on his face before starting to animatedly celebrate - he kept thanking her, kept saying he couldn’t believe it was real. She joked again that she didn’t want to see him the next morning when she came back to court.

When she called me afterward, her voice was calm but warm. “He’s ready,” she said. “He’s so happy. Tell his mom everything’s okay.”

By the next morning, everything was in motion. His mother sent me a string of emojis and a voice note full of nervous excitement. Christian messaged photos of the kitchen he’d stocked and the rooms that were parsed out, they got the aunts a hotel close to the airport.

By noon, I realized we still had no details. No airline, no flight number, not even a confirmed time. ICE gives you nothing.

We were ready. I tried to take the day to be productive but it was impossible. The day was filled with endless problems and updates, though in comparison they were much better problems to have. Christian didnt like that Jorge had brought over someone to the place that morning - Jorge thought Christian was being a bit of a tattle-tale. Mom was suspicious that Jorge and Christian were going to take Enrique out to party and do booze and what he needed was rest and meditation and the love of family so she was going to have one of the aunts go to the other airbnb.

After months of agony, outrage, and waiting, it was hard to believe it was ending - he would be back in Bogota and this whole nightmare would be done.