MIAMI -- The rules have changed abruptly for thousands of Cuban migrants in the United States after the Trump administration canceled the humanitarian parole program launched under President Joe Biden.

More than 100,000 Cubans arrived in the U.S. under humanitarian parole. Many have not yet been in the country for a full year and are already receiving notices placing them in an uncertain immigration status.

One of them is independent journalist and activist Lázaro Yuri Valle, who says he has spent over three decades opposing the Cuban government.

Valle received a notice from the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) ordering him to leave the country by April 25, 2025. The letter arrived days after the parole program was officially canceled on March 25.

Yuri and his wife, fellow activist Eralidis Frómeta, entered the U.S. on June 5, 2024, through an application submitted by a relative and approved by U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS).

Before emigrating, Valle served a three-year prison sentence in Cuba. He says he was physically and psychologically abused while incarcerated, and that his health was seriously impacted.

“We left in very poor psychological condition. We went straight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to stay with my wife’s family,” Valle told el Nuevo Herald. He says he was targeted by Cuban authorities for peaceful actions such as handing out leaflets with quotes from José Martí.

Thousands of Cubans were able to settle in the U.S. through humanitarian parole. In South Florida, the program has drawn criticism for allegedly failing to screen individuals with ties to the Cuban regime. But the repeal offers no exceptions and now affects cases like Valle and Frómeta’s, who say they had strong reasons to flee the island.

Political asylum: The only way to avoid deportation?

Valle says that if deported, he will continue to speak out against the Cuban government and plans to protest as soon as he lands in Havana. On Trump’s actions, he said the former president is “fixing things however he wants,” without passing judgment.

“Trump follows the policies he finds convenient. Everyone cleans up their own house however they want. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, but it’s affecting those of us who have nothing to do with his politics,” he told el Nuevo Herald.

Valle insists that both he and his wife have been victims of political persecution, and that international organizations have documented their cases. Among them, he cites the Organization of American States (OAS). The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), through its Americas Program, has expressed concern on social media after learning that both received DHS letters warning of possible deportation.

“I thank this country for welcoming my wife and me. We shouldn’t be going through this,” Valle said. “But many of the regime’s henchmen have arrived here and are still active here.”

He warns that returning to Cuba would endanger his life. “Going back would be a death sentence —a form of suicide after saving ourselves,” he said.

It’s an uncertain scenario for thousands of Cubans like them. Immigration attorneys agree that applying for asylum is a viable path to avoid deportation —as long as applicants meet legal and timing requirements.

Attorney Wilfredo Allen told el Nuevo Herald that this is the most viable option for those who have not yet completed a year of physical presence in the U.S. and are hoping to qualify under the Cuban Adjustment Act.

The cancellation of parole, effective April 25, will terminate the conditional release granted to beneficiaries upon entering the U.S., Allen explained. Those who haven’t started another immigration process may face removal orders unless they apply for asylum or other legal relief.

Faced with this situation, Valle and Frómeta decided to file for asylum, following advice from friends and attorneys. Frómeta, who was part of the Ladies in White movement in Cuba, said, “We had no other choice,” and added that they are already receiving legal guidance.

“What will happen? I don’t know. But we’re sure we suffered under a dictatorship, and our story is documented in the media and by several international NGOs. We also have plenty of evidence and witnesses, including fellow activists who are now refugees here,” she said.

‘Total uncertainty’: Cubans with I-220A also at risk

Another Cuban dissident awaiting a court ruling is activist Esteban Rodríguez, who also entered the U.S. with a Form I-220A. He says he shares the sense of uncertainty many of his fellow Cubans are feeling.

Rodríguez, a member of the San Isidro Movement —whose leader, Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, remains imprisoned in Cuba— arrived in the United States in 2022 after being forced into exile. Months earlier, he was arrested in Havana for peacefully protesting in support of Otero Alcántara, who was then on a hunger strike.

From Miami, Rodríguez warns that Trump’s new policies could jeopardize the safety of people who came to the U.S. seeking refuge. He says the new restrictions have renewed fears of deportation.

Orlando Gutiérrez-Boronat, spokesperson for the Cuban Democratic Directorate —an influential exile organization— called the potential repatriation of activists and human rights defenders “deeply unjust.”

“Those who entered the country legally shouldn’t be sent back to a totalitarian regime. Cubans have made great contributions to the U.S., and they deserve the opportunity to build a future here—especially those persecuted by the Havana regime,” Gutiérrez-Boronat told el Nuevo Herald.

Political opponents aren’t the only ones at risk. González, a 23-year-old Cuban who also arrived with an I-220A, told el Nuevo Herald his story and asked to be identified only by his last name. He still hasn’t received a court date and remains vulnerable to possible deportation.

“Trump’s policies are harsh on all Latinos. The future is uncertain—we don’t know what could happen,” González said. “You try to stay under the radar. If I get sent back to Cuba, I have family there—but it means starting over, maybe under surveillance. And then there’s the depression, after getting used to a country where anything is possible and returning to one where even food is scarce.”

Form I-220A, also known as a “Parole Order,” is a temporary admission document similar to conditional parole. Immigration officials have used it for people entering across the southern border, including migrants from other countries, attorney Allen explained.

The form has been the subject of litigation in immigration courts. A legal ruling determined that individuals holding I-220A do not meet the admission requirements for the Cuban Adjustment Act.

“There have been legal battles over I-220A and Cubans since 2018,” Allen said. However, some attorneys argue that it should count as valid admission for immigration purposes..

An unprecedented moment for Cuban migrants

For the first time since the Cuban Revolution, migrants from the island are facing a situation in the United States that contrasts with the welcome the country traditionally offered to those fleeing communism.

The Cuban political system —described as authoritarian by numerous international organizations— is going through one of its most severe crises in decades, with growing reports of repression and crackdowns on dissent.

Eduardo Gamarra, professor of political science and international relations at Florida International University (FIU), told el Nuevo Herald that this moment marks a significant departure from previous eras. He pointed to President Obama’s January 2017 decision to end the “wet foot, dry foot” policy as a turning point in U.S. policy toward Cuban migrants.

Now, Trump’s new measures are impacting people who have already been living in the United States for months —even those who entered through official channels like humanitarian parole.

Gamarra believes part of the public narrative has painted a negative image of this new Cuban migration wave, which has, in turn, helped justify recent policy decisions. But similar dynamics have occurred before. He cites the 1980 Mariel boatlift as an example, which also sparked backlash against new arrivals.

“I worked with many Mariel boatlift cases, including in California. It was a unique experience —no one knew who these new Cubans were. Many had no ID, and there was a widespread perception that they were criminals or mentally unstable,” Gamarra said. “But most of them weren’t, and they played a key role in Miami’s development.”

Unlike in the 1980s, Gamarra notes that Cubans arriving under the Biden parole program underwent background checks. Still, some long-settled Cuban Americans have stigmatized the newcomers, using labels like “Castro’s animals” or “communists.” He says those same terms still resonate in today’s debates.

Divided support and contradictions in immigration policy

The parole program implemented by the Biden administration —which also benefited citizens of Venezuela, Nicaragua, and Haiti— was one of the first to be challenged by President Trump upon his return to the White House. Since taking office again, the Republican leader has vowed to restrict what he calls an “uncontrolled invasion” fueled by Democratic immigration policies.

According to U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), more than 110,000 Cubans were authorized to travel to the United States through the program, which has granted entry to over half a million people from participating countries.

Despite recent restrictions, a significant portion of the Cuban American community continues to support Trump’s rhetoric. An FIU poll published in October 2024 found that 68% of likely Cuban American voters in Miami-Dade County planned to vote for Trump in the November election.

Cuban authorities have not released official figures on the number of nationals deported since Trump took office. However, a March 27 report indicated that a flight carrying 60 irregular Cuban migrants arrived in Havana from the United States.

In February, Cuba’s Ministry of the Interior reported another deportation flight with 104 passengers, including social media influencer Cinthya Medrano —known as “La Cintumbare”— who had previously boasted online about her lifestyle in the U.S. and her access to government benefits.

The profile of recent Cuban migrants has become a point of debate. FIU professor Eduardo Gamarra notes that some sectors believe not all are political refugees, but rather economic migrants seeking better opportunities. He adds that this narrative is reinforced by reports of some new arrivals returning to Cuba shortly after obtaining U.S. residency.

“People are like that—they create prejudices and comparisons,” Gamarra said. “This perception isn’t unique to Cubans; it happens with every migrant group. We don’t yet know what political impact these new policies will have. In the end, it may be that economic performance —not immigration— determines the outcome for Trump and the Republican Party.”

‘Trump gives us no respite’

Laura, a Cuban migrant admitted through parole in July 2024, told el Nuevo Herald—asking to be identified only by her first name—that she felt “desperate, like living in in a nightmare” upon hearing that the program had been revoked.

She said she had just four months left before becoming eligible to apply for permanent residency under the Cuban Adjustment Act. Now, she fears losing her legal status despite entering the country lawfully.

The 1966 law allows Cuban nationals to apply for legal permanent residency after one year and one day of physical presence in the U.S., provided they meet eligibility requirements. But the cancellation of parole has thrown plans into uncertainty for many who hoped to qualify.

Immigration attorneys recommend applying for asylum as an alternative path —particularly for those who have not yet met the minimum time required under the Adjustment Act.

Frustrated, Laura said she suffers from constant anxiety and doesn’t currently have the financial means to hire an attorney or gather the necessary documentation for an asylum case.

The climate of fear has disrupted the daily lives of many Cuban migrants, who now worry about being approached by immigration agents. “I didn’t have that fear before,” she said. “But now? You don’t know. I don’t even feel safe driving.”

That sense of vulnerability is shared by other recently arrived Cubans. Rodríguez, 53, who also requested to be identified only by her last name, told el Nuevo Herald she entered the U.S. using the CBP One mobile app after waiting five months in Mexico, where she arrived via a land route through Nicaragua. She now lives in Las Vegas.

She recalls hearing Trump speak favorably about Cubans while visiting restaurants in the city. But now, she said, “He gives us no respite. Not even as residents will we be able to move and live with peace of mind.”

Rodríguez believes that both humanitarian parole and CBP One offered lifelines to people fleeing authoritarian regimes. “We came to pursue our dreams, fight for opportunities, and build better lives,” she said.

Recent deportations have sparked mixed reactions within the Cuban community. Some have chosen to self-deport rather than risk detention.

Two weeks ago, news broke that 22-year-old Erick Dayan Corcho Aguilar, who had entered the U.S. through the parole program, voluntarily returned to Cuba after failing to renew his immigration status.

Meanwhile, Yuliet Rodes, a Cuban immigrant living in Miami, said she was able to reunite her family through humanitarian parole. “They all work and have integrated into society, and now they’re terrified of being deported,” she said. “Things in Cuba are awful —there’s no medicine, no electricity, no drinking water.”

Rodes concluded: “I hope Cuba will one day be free. But for now, my family is here, working and paying taxes. All they want is to move forward and stay in the United States. We Cubans fled an oppressive regime, and now we don’t know what will happen —because Trump’s policies aren’t helping any immigrants.”

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