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HOPKINS, Minn. — Every Sunday, Johann Teran attends a Lutheran service in the Minneapolis suburbs, seeking reassurance that the future he envisioned is not disappearing.

Like many other Venezuelans facing political and economic turmoil, Teran, along with his wife and her mother, has sought various forms of humanitarian protection in the United States. Unfortunately, those opportunities are dwindling, having been significantly reduced or anticipated to be phased out soon during the Trump administration.

“I feel as though they are saying, ‘Just go back, we don’t want you here,’ despite initially welcoming me,” Teran shared. “We are feeling hopeless and desperately searching for hope, which is why I find myself attending church more often, looking for that reassurance.”

At 27 years old, Teran arrived in Minnesota eight months ago under a humanitarian parole program introduced by the Biden administration in 2022. This initiative offered two-year visas to 500,000 individuals from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela — countries labeled by the U.S. as having unstable or oppressive governments — on the condition that they had a U.S. financial sponsor and passed stringent background checks.

While Teran secured his status, his wife Karelia, 29, remains without approval, as the new administration halted the program, leaving her stranded in Venezuela with no legal options to join him. In contrast, her mother, Marlenia Padron, received temporary protected status (TPS) in 2023, although this status is expected to end in early April for several hundred thousand Venezuelans like her. Even more Venezuelans and Haitians face the impending loss of TPS later this year, leading to lawsuits filed to contest the termination.

Before preparing dinner in her modest apartment adorned with images of distant relatives and Virgin Mary figurines, Padron noted her understanding of former President Trump’s frustration with Venezuelans who have committed offenses in the U.S. and his desire to deport them.

“By eliminating TPS, he is impacting us all,” Padron expressed in Spanish. “I worry about the many law-abiding people who are here. … I am employed, I pay my taxes, and I had aspirations of buying a house, but now those dreams feel out of reach.”

At 53, Padron recalls the threats she faced as Venezuela’s economic situation deteriorated. Working as a government attorney in Puerto La Cruz, she was kidnapped for ransom, arrested under false political allegations, and subjected to surveillance, all while observing her financial situation decline due to hyperinflation. Additionally, essential services such as water and electricity grew increasingly scarce.

“The kidnapping was the turning point,” she recounted, detailing how she was abducted from a shopping center and confined for three harrowing days, facing beatings and accusations of being a “traitor of the homeland” for questioning governmental corruption.

“Nobody can argue that Venezuela enjoys stability or respect for human rights, and so the migration will persist,” remarked Karen Musalo, an attorney and professor overseeing the Center for Gender & Refugee Studies at the University of California College of Law in San Francisco. “The Biden administration, through humanitarian parole and TPS, recognized this reality and acted accordingly.”

Musalo pointed out that most of the approximately 8 million Venezuelans who have fled in recent years sought refuge in neighboring Latin American countries.

Padron initially fled to Colombia, navigating a river infested with gangs and armed groups. Concerned for her safety, she proceeded to Mexico, crossed into the U.S., and declared her intention to seek asylum, which is a lengthy process.

Once TPS was announced, she applied, received a work permit, found a job at a printing facility, and finally felt secure in her new Minnesota life, free from constant fear and the need to hunt for basic necessities.

“Now, when I arrive home, I prepare my meals for the next day, and if I wish to dine out, I can do so — it’s a quality of life I had only dreamed about before,” she commented. “I no longer spend days waiting in line for gasoline.”

Encountering snow for the first time was a shock for Padron upon her arrival in fall 2021, yet she has found beauty and tranquility in it.

“When the snow piles up, I sometimes forget my shoes outside and then rediscover them untouched when I open the door! That alone is a luxury I’ve never known; in Venezuela, they’d simply be stolen,” she reflected.

However, with her daughter unable to join them and uncertainty surrounding her own future, Padron’s worries grow. Even her father, still in Venezuela, has questioned, “When will they deport you?” But Padron insists that returning is not an option due to safety fears.

A Catholic by upbringing, she dreams that if able to remain in the U.S., she will find a larger home featuring an altar adorned with flowers — one statue dedicated to the Virgin of Valle and another to La Virgen de la Caridad, an icon cherished by Cuban communities.

In the meantime, she has started attending Tapestry Church, a Lutheran congregation where both longtime residents and Latin American newcomers gather for worship in Spanish and English.

In 2023, the church sought to sponsor humanitarian parole for 38 Venezuelans, but those applications were never processed. Now, they aim to provide comfort to their community amidst widespread apprehension.

“Our strength lies in our community,” stated Rev. Melissa Melnick Gonzalez, the pastor of Tapestry.

Teran, employed as a paralegal, has been volunteering with the church to assist other immigrants with their paperwork.

“Everyone is anxious and frightened. People avoid going out these days,” he shared. “The Venezuelan community is depressed and isolated, as though we are hiding like criminals.”

He is attempting to secure a work visa that would keep him in the U.S. while allowing his wife, an orthodontist, to escape a country where professional life is rife with challenges and the threat of violent repression looms over any dissent.

Having studied democracy in law school, Teran dreams of practicing law in a stable environment where accountability prevails.

“That aspiration feels like it’s being stripped away by Obama’s policies,” Teran lamented.

During a recent evening, as Padron prepared arepas, Teran connected with Karelia via video call, reaching towards the screen to touch the image of their two sleeping Schnauzer dogs, Hoddy and Honey. Optimistically expecting his wife’s humanitarian parole to be approved soon, he had already relocated to a pet-friendly apartment before the program ended.

“Right now, I cannot discern any future that will allow her to join me. There’s nothing I can do to facilitate that,” Teran expressed. “I find it incomprehensible that I was permitted entry legally, and now I’m being treated as if I’m undocumented.”
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