Kaelyn’s relationship with Yapa, an asylum seeker from Venezuela, has turned into a desperate struggle against deportation, leading her to incur significant debt for legal assistance.
Last summer, Kaelyn found herself at a Latin club in Wilmington, North Carolina, when a charming stranger asked her to dance. Initially reluctant, she was drawn in by his genuine nature. “If anyone else had asked, I would’ve said no, but Yapa is so genuine,” she recalls, using a pseudonym to protect his identity. What began with a dance blossomed into a deep friendship, one that would soon lead to a fight for Yapa’s freedom.
Yapa, who fled violence in Venezuela in 2022, had been navigating the complexities of the U.S. immigration system. He attended regular court hearings and held a legal work permit, working as a delivery driver while aspiring to obtain his commercial trucking license. As their relationship deepened, Kaelyn became an integral part of his life.
The couple spent Thanksgiving together, with Yapa bonding with Kaelyn’s family. He played pool with her father, and her sisters affectionately began calling Kaelyn “reina”—a term of endearment Yapa had used when they first met. They enjoyed movie nights, often watching the Fast and Furious series, and supported each other through language barriers with translation apps and Kaelyn’s college Spanish. Each morning, Yapa would text her to inquire about her day, solidifying their connection.
Before meeting Yapa, Kaelyn, originally from Connecticut, had rarely considered immigration policy. However, the political climate shifted dramatically after President Trump took office, leading her to worry about the fate of asylum seekers. “People would tell me, Oh, you’re overreacting,” she says. “This isn’t 1930s Germany. And I’d say, Yeah, but it’s starting to feel that way. Looking back now, while people were telling me I was being dramatic, I was actually underreacting.”
On February 22, 2025, everything changed when ICE agents unexpectedly arrived in the early morning hours as Yapa was heading to work. Without explanation, they handcuffed him, confiscating his ID and work permit—documents that have not been returned. They provided no details about his destination, only that he was being deported soon.
Kaelyn was devastated when she received a call from Yapa’s sister, informing her that ICE had “abducted” him. Yapa had stayed with Kaelyn until the night before, and she had hoped he would remain with her, feeling that as a U.S. citizen, she could better advocate for his rights. “I couldn’t explain it, but I was so emotional,” she reflects on their last night together. “And he told me, ‘There’s no reason for them to take me.’” Now, her worst fears had materialized, and they were uncertain of his whereabouts, but they knew they had to act quickly to save him.
By the time Kaelyn took action, Yapa had already been transported to Georgia’s Stewart Detention Center. It wasn’t until two months later, during his hearing, that ICE accused him of being affiliated with the Venezuelan gang, Tren de Aragua (TdA). “Shocking is not even the word,” Kaelyn recalls. “I was shaking.”
In a recent court filing, ICE admitted it has no evidence linking Yapa to any gang. However, a ruling from the Trump administration complicates matters for immigrants like Yapa, who have recently entered the country and are seeking release from detention. As a result, Yapa faces the prospect of spending up to a year in detention while his asylum case is processed, with little control over where he might be deported if he loses.
Kaelyn’s reaction to the gang allegations was visceral; she understood the gravity of the situation. The possibility of Yapa being sent to CECOT, a notorious prison in El Salvador known for its brutality, weighed heavily on her. “I thought, I’m going to have to live the rest of my life knowing he’s in there, and there’s nothing that we can do to get him out of there,” she says. The notion that he—and many other innocent individuals—could be imprisoned in what some describe as a modern-day concentration camp is an “atrocity,” she asserts.
The emotional and financial toll on Kaelyn has been immense. She has hired multiple attorneys for Yapa, accumulating significant debt due to legal fees. Meanwhile, Yapa remains nine hours away from Wilmington, with limited access to phone calls. In April, attorneys from the American Immigration Council and the ACLU took on part of Yapa’s case pro bono. By May, they secured a ruling that prevents the Trump administration from deporting Yapa to CECOT or anywhere else based on the unsubstantiated gang allegations without allowing him a fair chance to contest them. While this decision brought some relief, Kaelyn feels as though her life has been turned upside down.
Conversations with her sister now primarily revolve around updates on Yapa’s case and the latest developments in immigration policy. “We can’t be happy when there’s literally a member of our family who’s been taken from us,” she states. “I’ll never let this go. The administration thinks they’re sowing fear—but they’re creating activists. You can’t destroy someone’s life and expect us to stay quiet.”
Source: Original article
