San Pedro Sula, Honduras — In a dimly lit airport facility packed with deported migrants, 69-year-old Norma finds herself once again in her home country, holding onto a foam cup of coffee and a small plate of eggs—her only welcome back to Honduras.

Norma, who prefers not to share her last name for safety reasons, never envisioned leaving her homeland. However, following anonymous death threats against her and her family, and the arrival of armed individuals at her home demanding her life, she felt forced to flee. Tragically, just days earlier, a relative had been murdered, intensifying her sense of danger.

After spending her life savings of $10,000 to undertake a perilous one-way journey to the U.S. with her daughter and granddaughter, Norma was met with disappointment when their asylum requests were denied. She now faces the daunting reality of being back in Honduras, where gangs lurk nearby, leaving her in a precarious situation amidst a cycle of violence and economic hardship that often entraps returnees like her.

“They can find us in every corner of Honduras,” she expressed from the migrant processing facility, voicing her reliance on divine intervention. “We’re praying for God’s protection, because we don’t expect anything from the government.”

With the incoming U.S. administration promising to intensify deportations, countries like Honduras brace themselves for an anticipated influx of vulnerable migrants—an overwhelming situation for which they are ill-equipped.

According to Jason Houser, a former chief of staff with Immigration & Customs Enforcement during the Biden presidency, nations such as Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador—holding the highest numbers of unauthorized U.S. residents after Mexico—could bear the brunt of these mass deportations. Such moves may predominantly target individuals from countries like Venezuela that refuse to accept deportation flights.

“Hondurans, Guatemalans, Salvadorans need to be very, very nervous because this administration will push the limits of the law,” warned Houser.

For those returning, fears abound regarding the deepening economic and humanitarian crises they confront, which may drive further migrations in the future. “We don’t have the capacity to absorb so many people,” Antonio García, Honduras’ deputy foreign minister, stated. He lamented the minimal support available for deportees, remarking that they often receive the least attention upon their return.

Since 2015, around 500,000 individuals have been deported to Honduras. As they disembark from planes and buses, they are greeted with coffee, light snacks, and toiletries. While some feel a sense of relief from harsh conditions in U.S. detention, others experience panic upon their return.

“We don’t know what we’ll do, what comes next,” one woman voiced among a group of deportees awaiting assignment.

According to U.S. figures, approximately 560,000 Hondurans, or roughly 5% of the local populace, reside illegally in the U.S. Migration experts estimate that approximately 150,000 of these individuals could be located and deported quickly.

Although the Honduran government claims to offer services to reintegrate deportees, many return to a gang-driven atmosphere with limited job opportunities to manage overwhelming debts. For Norma, the fear of returning home looms large with gangs lingering in her neighborhood, leaving her without a safe place to go.

Norma suspects the threats directed at her stem from an uncle who had issues with gang members prior to his death.

Despite intensified enforcement measures, García estimates that around 40% of Honduran deportees make the journey back to the U.S.

The return of individuals like 31-year-old Larissa Martínez entails navigating a complex web of challenges. After being deported in 2021 along with her three children, she battled the difficulties of job hunting, compounded by economic strain and the absence of her partner, who had abandoned her.

In the three years since her return, Martínez has attempted to repay $5,000 owed to family members for her journey, but has struggled to find steady work. She improvised a makeshift wooden structure on the outskirts of San Pedro Sula, where she sells meats and cheeses, yet business has been slow. The encroaching tropical rains have worsened her living conditions, leading her to repeat a mantra of need: “If I don’t find work in December, I’ll leave in January.”

César Muñoz, a leader with the Mennonite Social Action Commission, points out that Honduran authorities have largely neglected individuals like Martínez, relying instead on organizations such as his for support. With deportation flights coming three times a week, relief networks are being stretched to their limits, and a greater influx of returnees could spell disaster.

“We’re at the brink of a new humanitarian crisis,” Muñoz asserted.

Responses to a potential repeat of the Trump administration’s policies have varied across Latin America, especially in countries intertwined with migration and trade with the U.S. Guatemala has started strategizing how to tackle mass deportations, while Mexico has ramped up legal services to assist its citizens and plans to address non-Mexican deportees directly.

Despite the looming threat of deportations, Deputy Minister García remains skeptical about the feasibility of such actions, citing the essential role immigrants play in the U.S. economy and the complex logistics involved. Even if deportations were increased, García stated, it would be “impossible” to halt migration efforts, as communities continue to be driven by dire poverty, violence, and the aspiration for better lives. Migrants persistently board buses making their way back to the U.S. seeking a ray of hope amid a bleak reality.

As the number of deportations rises, smugglers have devised plans allowing migrants three attempts to reach the U.S. Even if captured and sent back, they still have two further chances waiting behind them.

Freshly returned to Honduras, 26-year-old Kimberly Orellana finds herself pondering her future. After being held for three months in a Texas detention center, she arrived back in San Pedro Sula, where she anxiously awaits her mother. Meanwhile, her thoughts drift toward reuniting with her 4-year-old daughter, Marcelle, currently being cared for by a friend in North Carolina.

Separated during the crossing of the Rio Grande, Orellana made a promise to her daughter, vowing they would come together again. However, uncertainty clouds her future. “Mami, are you sure you’re coming?” Marcelle asks through the phone, heightening Orellana’s internal conflict.

“Now, being here it’s difficult to know if I’ll ever be able to follow through with that promise,” Orellana lamented, gripping her Honduran passport tightly. “I have to try again. … My daughter is all I have.”