HOPKINS, Minn. — Every Sunday, Johann Teran attends a Lutheran service in suburban Minneapolis, seeking reassurance that the aspirations he once had are not entirely fading away.
Like many Venezuelans grappling with severe political and economic turmoil, Teran, alongside his wife and her mother, applied for various humanitarian benefits in the United States that have either been restricted by the Trump administration or are expected to be phased out soon.
“I feel like the message is clear: ‘Just go back, we don’t want you,’” Teran expressed earnestly. “Even when they gave me the chance to come here, I’m left feeling hopeless, which is why I’m attending church more often—to find the hope I desperately need.”
At 27, Teran arrived in Minnesota eight months ago under a humanitarian parole initiative introduced by the Biden administration in 2022. This program aimed to provide two-year visas for up to 500,000 individuals from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela — nations perceived by the U.S. government as unstable or oppressive – provided they had a financial sponsor and passed necessary background checks.
His wife, Karelia, 29, has not yet received her approval after the current administration ended the program, relegating her to a legal limbo in Venezuela. Meanwhile, her mother, Marlenia Padron, received temporary protected status (TPS) in 2023, but that protection is set to expire in early April for many Venezuelans, including her. A new wave of TPS-terminations will additionally affect hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans and Haitians later this year; lawsuits have now been filed to contest the decision regarding Venezuelans.
While preparing dinner in her modest apartment adorned with pictures of distant relatives and Virgin Mary figurines, Padron reflected on the frustrations of the past. She acknowledged that President Trump was likely responding to concerns about Venezuelans who were criminal offenders in the U.S., aiming for deportation.
“But by eliminating TPS, we all face the consequences,” Padron said in Spanish. “I’m uncertain about the future, especially for those of us who cause no harm… I’m working, filing my taxes, and I had dreams of home ownership, but now those dreams feel impossible.”
At 53, Padron’s troubles began as Venezuela’s economic crisis worsened. As an attorney for a local government in Puerto La Cruz, she experienced a harrowing kidnapping for ransom, false political charges, and constant surveillance, all against a backdrop of vanishing income, rationed resources, and a severe scarcity of medication for her elderly mother.
“The kidnapping experience was pivotal,” she recounted, describing how she was abducted from a shopping area and held captive for three days, amid beatings and accusations of being a “traitor for questioning corruption.”
“Nobody can argue that Venezuela offers stability or respect for human rights. People will continue to escape,” remarked Karen Musalo, a legal expert and professor leading the Center for Gender & Refugee Studies at University of California College of Law in San Francisco. “The Biden administration acknowledged this reality through the humanitarian parole and TPS initiatives.”
Musalo mentioned that a significant majority of the nearly 8 million Venezuelans who have sought refuge in recent years ended up in other Latin American nations, contributing to a regional crisis.
Padron initially fled to Colombia by traversing a river notorious for criminal activity. Sensing continued threats against her, she proceeded to Mexico, crossed into the U.S., and requested asylum—a process that often spans years.
Upon the commencement of the TPS program, she applied, attained a work permit, and secured a position at a printing business. She finally felt a sense of safety in Minnesota — free from the constant threats and struggles for basic necessities.
“I come home and cook for the next day, and if I wish to dine out, I can,” she shared. “Life is more manageable here; I earn what one needs to live calmly, no more waiting for gas for two days.”
Having never encountered trees bereft of leaves before her arrival, adjusting to Minnesota’s frigid winters has proven to be an adjustment, yet she finds tranquility in the snowfall.
“There are times when it snows profusely, and I unintentionally leave my shoes outside; when I check, they’re still there! In Venezuela, they would surely be stolen,” Padron noted with a sense of wonder.
Currently, her daughter lacks a pathway to reunite with the family, and Padron remains uncertain about her next actions. Even her father in Venezuela is asking her, “When will you be deported?” Yet she asserts she cannot return, fearing for her life.
Having grown up in the Catholic faith, she holds onto the hope that if granted permission to remain in the United States, she could acquire a larger home complete with an altar adorned with flowers for her beloved statuettes—the Virgin Del Valle from her hometown and La Virgen de la Caridad, revered particularly among Cubans.
In the meantime, she began attending Tapestry Church, a Lutheran congregation where long-time residents and Latin American migrants jointly partake in services in Spanish and English.
This past year, the church sought to sponsor humanitarian parole for 38 Venezuelans, but those applications never advanced. The congregation is now focused on providing support to its members in the face of widespread anxiety.
“We believe in our strength as a community,” emphasized Rev. Melissa Melnick Gonzalez, pastor of Tapestry.
Teran, working as a paralegal, has taken to volunteering within the congregation, assisting fellow immigrants with paperwork.
“Everyone is anxious and fearful. People are hesitant to step outside,” he said. “The Venezuelan community seems to be staying home, behaving as though we’re all criminals.”
He is currently working towards securing a work visa, which would allow him to stay in the U.S. while helping his wife, an orthodontist, escape a country where young professionals struggle to survive—where dissent is met with brutal repression.
Having studied democracy in law school, he aspires to practice law in a country characterized by “no impunity.”
“It’s as though my dreams are being shattered by Trump’s policies,” Teran lamented.
On a recent evening, as Padron prepared arepas, Teran video-called his wife, reaching toward the screen as she showcased their two sleeping Schnauzers, Hoddy and Honey. Anticipating that Karelia’s humanitarian parole would soon receive approval, he had recently relocated to a pet-friendly apartment; now, that hope feels dashed.
“I see no future right now for her joining us. There’s nothing I can do,” Teran said, voice laden with frustration. “It’s bewildering to me; they let me in legally, yet here I am, treated like an illegal.”
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