A new Human Rights First report exposes record-breaking ICE deportation and detention-transfer flights under the Trump administration—reaching 77 countries and often carried out with harsh, dehumanizing practices. The data reveals a vast, largely hidden global deportation system, made visible only through painstaking investigative tracking.
The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops’ vote and new national campaign to support migrants are the group’s first responses to the Trump administration’s crackdown.
In a rare group statement, America’s Catholic bishops voted nearly unanimously Wednesday to condemn the Trump administration’s crackdown on undocumented immigrants as an attack on “God-given human dignity,” and advocated for “meaningful reform of our nation’s immigration laws.”
“We oppose the indiscriminate mass deportation of people. We pray for an end to dehumanizing rhetoric and violence, whether directed at immigrants or at law enforcement,” read the message from the U.S.
Conference of Catholic Bishops. After the vote (216-5, with three abstentions), the bishops stood and applauded. The last such “Special Message” was delivered 12 years ago.
The new message listed the types of suffering the church leaders say many undocumented migrants experience, including “arbitrarily” losing their legal status, being subject to poor detention conditions, and being afraid to take children to school or go to church. “We feel compelled now in this environment to raise our voices in defense of God-given human dignity,” the bishops wrote.
They said they were punished in a dark room called the island, where they were trampled, kicked and forced to kneel for hours.
One man said officers thrust his head into a tank of water to simulate drowning.
Another said he was forced to perform oral sex on guards wearing hoods.
Others were shot by rubber bullets.
They said they were told by officials that they would die in the Salvadoran prison, that the world had forgotten them.
“‘You are all terrorists,’” Edwin Meléndez, 30, recalled being told by officers who added: “‘Terrorists must be treated like this.’”
When they could no longer take it, they held a hunger strike. They cut themselves, writing protest messages on sheets in blood.
One detainee, age 26, was so sick that he could not get out of bed, and other men had to feed him. Taken to the infirmary, he was beaten in front of medical personnel. A doctor told him: “‘Resign yourself. It’s time for you to die.’”
To send the 252 Venezuelan men to prison in El Salvador —along with many Salvadoran nationals—in March of this year, Mr. Trump invoked the Alien Enemies Act, a sweeping, rarely used 18th-century law that allows for the expulsion of people from an invading nation.
In September, Mr. Trump, speaking at the United Nations General Assembly, praised Salvadoran officials for “the successful and professional job they’ve done in receiving and jailing so many criminals that entered our country.”
The Trump administration has further dismantled legal protections for Honduran women fleeing gender-based violence. Recent U.S. immigration rulings have invalidated key “particular social group” (PSG) categories—such as “Honduran women unable to leave a relationship”—that previously allowed women to claim asylum based on gender persecution. These changes, effectively bar many victims of domestic and sexual violence from receiving asylum. The rulings ignore the deep links between private violence, organized crime, and state complicity in Honduras, which has the highest femicide rate in Latin America.
Venezuelan opposition leader María Corina Machado was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her work promoting democracy and human rights. However, her record and political alliances tell a different story. Machado has expressed support for U.S. military intervention in Venezuela, aligned herself with Trump, Netanyahu, and far-right groups in Europe, and used anti-migrant and nationalist rhetoric to advance her cause. Her positions raise questions about what kind of “peace” and “democracy” she represents, and how her leadership affects the broader Venezuelan struggle against dictatorship and foreign interference.
As ICE expands its use of A.I. surveillance tools from Palantir, Graphite, and Zignal Labs, scholar Austin Kocher warns that the U.S. is adopting “digital authoritarianism with American characteristics.” In his new article for Dialogues on Digital Society, Kocher argues that ICE’s tech-driven deportation machine mirrors tactics once seen only in China—raising urgent questions about power, accountability, and how far democracy can bend before it breaks.
As immigration raids sweep through Latino neighborhoods across the U.S. Southwest, Catholic and interfaith communities are stepping up as lifelines of faith and resistance. In Coachella, California, parishioners deliver food to immigrants too terrified to leave their homes. In Nogales, Mexico, nuns and volunteers cook daily meals for deportees. And in El Paso, faith groups pray outside federal buildings as they watch asylum seekers’ cases—most ending in denial.
While politicians defend the crackdown as “the Lord’s work,” church leaders are calling it what it is: a moral crisis. Pope Leo XIV has condemned mass deportations as “inhuman,” urging U.S. bishops to speak louder for compassion. Bishop Mark Seitz of El Paso and others have taken that call to heart, demanding solidarity and reminding the faithful of America’s founding ideals of justice and welcome.
Across border cities, fear runs deep—families skipping Mass, children too afraid to go to school, priests celebrating online to reach those in hiding. Yet amid raids, trauma, and despair, faith endures. From Texas to California, believers continue to feed, shelter, and stand with the persecuted, transforming prayer into quiet defiance against a system that criminalizes hope.
Indigenous Maya Q’eqchi’ communities who live in the Sierra Santa Cruz mountain range in Izabal Department, Guatemala, have been battling harmful and violent mining operations for over 60 years. Recently, following peaceful occupations, protests, and complaints filed with the Public Ministry over illegal excavations carried out by mining companies, the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources (MARN) announced on July 30 that ten environmental licenses granted for operations in the Sierra Santa Cruz had been cancelled. Despite this, Canada-based Central America Niquel (CAN) and its subsidiaries, Río Nickel S.A. and Nichromet Guatemala, have continued to illegally push ahead with mining operations in the Sierra Santa Cruz mountain range.
Following his vital work covering local resistance to these mining operations, journalist and human rights defender Carlos Ernesto Choc is facing targeted attacks of intimidation and harassment. Since 2017, Carlos Choc has faced unfounded criminal charges related to his coverage of police brutality during protests against the El Fénix nickel mine in El Estor (where 90% of the residents are Indigenous Maya Q’eqchi’), arbitrary house raids, and threatening attacks by unidentified assailants. Now, he is experiencing escalating acts of intimidation, including shots being fired near his house, an unidentified car hitting the fence surrounding his house, and defamatory messages being circulated online. We are writing to Guatemalan authorities to implement immediate measures to protect Choc.
After President Bukele’s government repealed El Salvador’s historic mining ban, environmentalists fear a quiet return of metal mining—starting with the long-contested El Dorado gold project. Despite official silence, new companies are being registered, land deals linked to mining firms are surfacing, and military presence in affected communities is increasing. Activists report being watched and harassed, even as they continue to fight criminal charges seen as politically motivated. With worsening water shortages and contamination risks, many Salvadorans warn that reopening the mines threatens not only the environment but also their communities’ survival and democratic freedoms.
Eight years after police tore through her land, destroying her crops and home, Chela still cannot return to El Guayabo—the place she loves most and fears most. Her pain is shared by a community that has endured years of violence, evictions, and resistance in defense of their territory. But now, after more than a decade of struggle, El Guayabo’s wounds are finally being acknowledged: the community has been officially recognized as a subject of collective reparations under Colombia’s Victims’ Law.
This long-awaited recognition is more than a bureaucratic victory—it’s an act of memory and dignity. It affirms the suffering, resilience, and courage of those who stood their ground through fear and loss. As El Guayabo enters a new phase to define how reparations will be made, the hope is that this step will not only restore what was taken but help heal what violence tried to erase.
