Andres, a 60-year-old immigrant from Venezuela with a 30-year background in mechanical engineering, works 60 hours a week as a Lyft and DoorDash driver.
When the Venezuelan military started harassing Empresas Polar, the company he worked for, Andres lost his job. The Venezuelan government accused the company, the largest food and beverage distributor in the country, of creating false scarcity. Andres, whose last name is omitted due to his immigration status, was no longer able to be employed in Venezuela. He sought asylum in the United States three years ago, he said.
“Leaving the country, that’s the hardest thing,” he said. “After that, you tell yourself, ‘You have to be strong, [and] you have to overcome adversity.’”
Andres started a new life in the U.S. under asylum. Now, he fears the life he has worked to rebuild in America might be stripped from his grasp as President Donald Trump's administration escalates deportation efforts.
Until he finds out what his future holds, Andres spends his days navigating Gainesville’s streets, picking up passengers and delivering food far from the factory floors where he once worked as an engineer for Empresas Polar.
Although he works legally while his asylum case remains pending, Andres doesn’t feel secure while he waits for a decision on his application, which could mean being forced to leave the U.S.
“No immigrant is truly safe until their case is resolved, until they have legal status,” he said. “I’m within the system, but I won’t feel at ease until I have formal residency — something permanent.”
For people like Andres, the Sunshine State is an ideal destination for those fleeing political instability and economic hardship. Nearly 2.8 million immigrants poured into the U.S. from July 2023 to July 2024 — over 411,000 of whom chose Florida as their destination.
Changes in policy
Gov. Ron DeSantis promised to veto an immigration enforcement bill, called the TRUMP Act, in January, citing it wasn’t harsh enough. If passed, it would allocate more than $500 million for local enforcement, increase criminal penalties for unauthorized immigrants, create a new state office to oversee deportation and mandate the death penalty for any illegal immigrant convicted of a capital offense, like raping or murdering a child.
The bill emerged from a DeSantis-ordered special legislative session after Senate President Ben Albritton and House Speaker Daniel Perez rejected initial proposals. The state legislature’s version shifted some immigration enforcement authority away from the governor’s office to the state’s agriculture commissioner, Wilton Simpson.
The Trump administration announced Feb. 1 it will end Temporary Protected Status, which allows immigrants to work in the U.S. without risk of deportation, by April 7. More than 300,000 Venezuelans are in the U.S. under former President Joe Biden’s 2023 designation, including Andres. Trump’s administration announced a TPS extension for Ukranians and Sudanese due to “extraordinary and temporary conditions.”
Those once protected from deportation must now scramble to find a legal pathway to remain in the U.S. Like thousands of immigrants in Florida, Andres is caught in legal limbo, waiting for a decision that could shape the rest of his life.
Legal aid
Federal immigration laws have been in place for decades, said Freddy Maldonado, an immigration lawyer based in Gainesville. Undocumented immigrants, especially those with criminal records or deportation orders, and those losing TPS are the most susceptible to changes under the Trump administration, he said.
"Unless you fall into one of those categories, from a legal perspective, you're not going to see too much change," he said.
Those in the U.S. legally or through protected programs should be safe from deportation, he added.
Immigrants can still obtain legal status through various avenues, including petitions from family or employers, proof of marriage to a U.S. citizen and green cards. What changes is how state-level policies like the TRUMP Act shape how immigration enforcement is carried out in Florida, Maldonado said.
For those who cannot afford legal representation in the process of preserving their residency in the U.S., immigration attorneys frequently offer free or “relatively affordable” consultations to clients to discuss concerns, Maldonado added. Legal aid organizations like Florida Legal Services Inc. and immigration clinics, like that at the UF Levin College of Law, are also available.
Maldonado's firm has witnessed a surge in inquiries from immigrants who fear policy changes could impact their futures in the U.S.
"We're booking appointments out for two weeks from now, which is something that we've never done before,” he said. “People who have had the option to adjust status for years or decades are now seriously considering doing something about it.”
Seeking safety
Carlos Casanova, a UF lecturer at the Hamilton Center, knows firsthand what it means to flee political persecution. He didn’t just witness oppression — he became a target himself.
As a professor at Universidad Simón Bolívar in Caracas from 1996 to 2003, Casanova was vocal about the government’s increasing control over higher education. He saw universities as one of the last independent institutions in the country, and he fought to keep them free from political influence, he said.
When the government forcibly removed university leaders and replaced them with political allies, Casanova organized student protests to resist the takeover. He quickly became a recognizable figure in the national opposition.
Then, the threats started. He was told the National Directorate of Intelligence and Prevention Services of Venezuela was “watching him.”
“I knew what that meant,” Casanova said. “People were being killed, and the government would say it was a common crime or an accident. It was never an accident.”
He had seen it before. Professors, journalists, union leaders — anyone who spoke out against the government — were disappearing or turning up dead under suspicious circumstances.
After a brief coup attempt against Hugo Chávez in 2002, the government cracked down harder on dissent. Casanova left Venezuela for a visiting scholar position in the U.S. in 2003 intending to return after a year. While abroad, he realized it was unsafe to return.
Instead, he built a life abroad — first in the U.S., then in Chile for nearly 17 years — before returning to Florida in 2023 for a position at UF. But even after decades away, Venezuela’s crisis remains personal. He still has family there, and some of his relatives in the U.S. rely on TPS. The abrupt termination of protections will devastate families who built their lives in the U.S. after escaping a country in economic collapse, he said.
“The U.S. government invited these people to seek protection,” he said. “Now, suddenly, they’re reversing that promise. What happens to them? They can’t go back.”
Casanova’s cousin in Miami is one of those facing an uncertain future. He and his wife both work to support their two daughters, one of whom just started college. Losing TPS means losing work permits and protection from deportation. Their only option is to return to Venezuela.
Casanova said the U.S. has a moral obligation to honor commitments made under previous administrations.
Conversations once filled with hope about legal status are being replaced by fears of entire lives being split apart, he added.
“This isn’t about policy anymore,” Casanova said. “It’s about people’s lives.”
Deportation realities
Immigration and Customs Enforcement has four detention centers for detained immigrants in Florida, including the Baker County Detention Center. Most detainees are held for non-criminal immigration violations, said Joan Anderson, founder of Baker Interfaith Friends, a local advocacy group supporting detainees through visitation programs. These detainees experience conditions more grueling than serving a criminal sentence, she added.
Baker Interfaith Friends strives to better understand the complexities of immigration by learning about the backgrounds of those detained. It offers socialization and a shoulder to cry on for immigrants. On a visit to a private prison facility in Folkston, Georgia, the organization met with people from North Africa who had made arduous journeys, often taking up to two years to reach the U.S.
"They were so happy when they crossed the border, because they...were sure that when people were aware of the situations that they left, that they would be welcomed and cared for,” Anderson said.
While pathways to legal status exist, each comes with barriers, including backlogs, high costs and complex legal requirements. Many immigrants struggle to secure legal assistance, prolonging their cases and increasing the risk of deportation. For those like Andres, whose asylum case remains pending, or Casanova’s cousin, who faces the loss of TPS, legal status is more than just paperwork — it’s the difference between security and uncertainty, stability and displacement.
Contact Vera Lucia Pappaterra at vpappaterra@alligator.org. Follow her on X @veralupap.
