“The officer made it clear we were being deported”: How Trump’s anti-immigration policies impacted Russian asylum seekers

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Viktoria (deported from the U.S. with her family): “As soon as they gave our passports back, we managed to escape”

In 2024, we went to Alexei Navalny’s funeral in Moscow. It was terrifying to go out. That day, there were warnings about mass arrests. The authorities did all they could to intimidate people — but we had to say our goodbyes. Soon after, we began having problems with Russian law enforcement. We quickly packed our things and left the country with our two children.

We arrived in Mexico in June 2024 and registered in the CBP One app — the U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s virtual queue system. We spent seven months waiting for a border appointment. Then the administration changed, and the app was shut down. Mexico started cracking down harder on migrants, and there were raids along the U.S. border. We'd almost run out of money. On top of that, Mexico was unsafe: right in front of us, a cartel kidnapped a Russian family with two children and held them hostage for several days in harsh conditions.

In early February 2025, my husband and I headed to the port of entry to request political asylum. But we were too late. CBP officers at the Otay Mesa crossing in California all said the same thing — that political asylum no longer existed, that the new administration had shut the program down. They told us to go back to Mexico. We kept insisting that we wanted to apply for asylum.

We were processed at the border station. Legally, you’re not considered to be on U.S. soil there. What struck us was that only Russian-speaking families were being held there: Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Russian, and Armenian citizens. We had understood it wasn't a hotel, but the conditions were extremely harsh. The children were constantly hungry — all we received was snacks and instant noodles. There was an 18-month-old girl with us in detention and a few other minors under 17. We weren’t always given drinking water — they told us to drink from the tap. Those who had arrived earlier were already suffering from stomach issues, so we didn’t want to risk it. The worst part was that we had to bathe the children in cold water, even though we asked many times to fix the issue.

The healthcare workers were not very friendly. The only advice they ever gave was to drink more water to avoid dehydration. The night shift was more compassionate. They fed the children, let us make phone calls, and occasionally allowed us to see our husbands, who were being held in a separate cell — sometimes even in handcuffs.

We were kept in that room for 25 days. Cold air conditioning, white walls, and two surveillance cameras — they watched our every move. We slept on mattresses on the floor, covered in foil blankets. The kids were going stir-crazy. They started building mazes out of the mattresses. An officer would immediately rush in and lash out: “If you keep playing, we’ll take the mattresses and give you thin yoga mats instead.” We asked for books or even just 15 minutes outside, but nothing was allowed. They told us: “Sit or sleep.”

A child with autism screamed nonstop throughout the entire border facility, but they still kept him there and refused to release him. A pregnant woman at 32 weeks was also held for around 30 days.

On the walls of the room where we were taken for meals, there were posters stating that the maximum detention time for children at the border is 72 hours. We pointed this out, but the officers said, “You came at the worst possible time. There’s no asylum anymore. You are free to sign the deportation papers and book a flight.”

Families who had been in detention for 30 days or longer started being deported. The first group of Russians — 15 people with children — were sent to Costa Rica in handcuffs on a military plane. We saw from our small windows that they were taken away against their will. Later, they told us they hadn’t wanted to board the plane, but the military forced them on.

After a while, the deportations on military planes stopped, and we were flown out on a commercial flight. We were escorted by four people from a private transport company, who were fairly friendly. They calmed us down, gave us food, let us shower, and accompanied us through Washington to New York. There was no hostility, except that they took our phones, documents, and laptop.

We kept saying that we would not go anywhere. They told us their job was only to escort us from San Diego to New York, where an ICE officer would meet us — that’s who we should direct our questions to. We spent the night in a hotel in New York. They let us rest, but the escorts stayed in the room, rotating shifts throughout the night to make sure we didn’t try to escape.

The ICE officer, who met with us at the airport, made it clear that we were being deported to Russia. I told him it was extremely dangerous for us to return. We kept publicly requesting political asylum — so that other people would hear us. The officer said that if we refused, the children and I would be sent to Costa Rica, and my husband would be forcibly taken to Russia.

He also said that a court decision had already been made in our case: “Here’s the yellow envelope — you’ll get your papers in Russia.” I said, “We have a lawyer, let us make a call.” He said it was pointless. We’re certain that there was no court hearing in our case. We don’t exist in the U.S. court system. It was obvious the officer lied to us. By the time this public show of force took place, we were exhausted, humiliated, weakened, and terrified. What hurt most was what our children had to go through.

Our lawyer later reviewed the document we were given. It includes a five-year entry ban. According to the lawyer, this wasn’t a formal deportation but an expedited removal — a process carried out without a court hearing. There is no mention of our asylum claim, and nothing to indicate that we ever had a hearing before an immigration judge.

Several lawyers told us that, in their experience, removal from immigration detention on U.S. soil is common, but they had never seen anyone deported directly from the border. Human rights advocates, including the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), have filed a class-action lawsuit against the authorities over this issue.

Our family was lucky. We were deported via China and spent 17 hours on a Chinese airline. The crew member assigned to us sat in the seat next to us and slept. At the Beijing airport, before going through immigration and boarding the flight to Russia, we were handed our documents and left on our own. We took that opportunity to buy tickets to another country. We managed to escape.

It’s been two months now. We’ve lost our sense of stability, but we’re trying to hold on. All of our medical indicators are out of balance. The children had allergic reactions. After all, we were fed sugary snacks — peanut butter every single day.

Our children don’t trust adults anymore and have a hard time opening up. We decided not to take them to psychologists or therapists for now — instead, we spend time with them, go on walks, read books, and hope for the best. Our top priority is restoring our family’s emotional well-being. It’s hard to make long-term plans. I believe what happened to us was unfair, and that justice will prevail, no matter how cliché that may sound these days.

We found an American lawyer. He says we need to wait for the outcome of the class-action lawsuit filed by the American Civil Liberties Union.

Nikita (made it through before Trump): “Welcome to America”

I took part in a rally in support of Alexei Navalny in 2021. In March 2024, I put up flyers disguised as price tags in the store where I worked: one read “No to war,” and others called on people to boycott the elections. Instead of support, I started receiving threats from customers. A participant in the “special military operation” [Russian official term for the war in Ukraine] forced me to take everything down, threatening physical violence. Less than two weeks later, the police showed up at my workplace, saying someone had filed a complaint against me. They waited for me near my home and took me to the station.

They told me they knew I had attended the pro-Navalny rally and gotten away without punishment. Back then, they had threatened me with an administrative fine but ultimately let me go — though they clearly hadn’t forgotten. This time, they said I wouldn’t get off so easily and that they would prosecute me for “extremism.” They held me overnight and released me only in the morning. I realized I had to leave the country, and a couple of days later, I flew to Turkey. But Turkey doesn’t grant asylum — even worse, it hands over refugees at the request of the Russian government. Around 10 days later, I decided to seek asylum in the U.S.

I booked a ticket to Mexico, but the Turkish airport authorities didn’t let me board. The only option left was to fly out of Russia, even though it was risky. After landing in Moscow, I made it to another airport for a connecting flight and flew to Cuba. The very next day, police officers showed up at my Russian apartment looking for me. They searched the place and said a criminal case had been opened against me, and that I needed to report to the police station.

From Cuba, I made it to Mexico and registered through the CBP One app — the U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s system, which stopped working after Trump returned to power. At the end of June 2024, I received a border crossing date. I was met at the entry point, my documents were checked, and a DNA sample was taken. They took me to what's called “the border” — but in reality, it was a detention facility. I spent seven or eight days there, held in solitary confinement because of my HIV-positive status. Then they handcuffed me and took me to the Otay Mesa immigration detention center near San Diego, where I was held in a general population unit with 128 people. Two weeks later, I was scheduled for a blood test, and two weeks after that, I saw a doctor who started me on HIV treatment.

My credible fear interview was conducted on the 50th day after crossing the border. The timing varies — some have it as early as day four, others much later. An officer from the Department of Homeland Security conducted the interview remotely by phone, asking who I am, why I fled, what problems I faced, and what might happen if I return to Russia. An interpreter was present. The interview lasted 2 hours and 20 minutes. I had prepared in advance by writing down all events to avoid forgetting anything, since any inconsistencies or lapses could be seen as deception.

Ten days later, I received a positive result. The officer believed my fear of persecution and determined that I was indeed in danger if I returned.

The first court hearing was scheduled for October. In September, there were too many people from the [post-Soviet space] in our overcrowded unit — a total of 40 Russian speakers. They brought lists of people to be transferred to another facility. We were only allowed to take a blanket with us. Some managed to keep their food supplies. We spent the entire night in our cells until 5 a.m. before the transfer. Others were allowed to change into their own clothes, but my clothes had been lost.

We were sent to Conroe — a small town in Texas, where the local detention center is considered a real prison. They housed us in cells, 12 people each. Each cell had two phones and two tablets. We could order food and use messaging apps to communicate with the outside world. But when they took us on walks and to the medical unit, we were escorted past regular inmates in orange uniforms.

I had problems because of my condition. Many were afraid that I was contagious. I took time to explain that living with HIV is manageable, but my cellmates kicked me out anyway. After two days in solitary confinement in the medical unit, they moved me to another cell where I was met with even more hostility. I was told to stand by the door. My new cellmates were Russian speakers — they were shouting and cursing. A bunch of guards rushed in. As soon as the door opened, I immediately pushed my belongings outside and said, “Please, get me out of here.” The guard shoved my things back and said, “No one leaves here.” Eventually, they isolated me from the others and moved me to an 18-person cell, where I lived alone. Later, they found another cell for me.

My hearing was scheduled for the end of January. I was preparing on my own, without a lawyer, and thought I could handle everything myself. Some volunteers helped me. Then a law firm agreed to take me on pro bono. We realized we could win but needed to be better prepared. The lawyers requested a postponement, and the judge agreed to reschedule the hearing for early March. I seemed to have everything: evidence, photos, documents. But it's very important to present it all correctly — for example, to clarify the dates the photos were taken. Thanks to the lawyer, we were able to properly submit all the information to the court.

The hearing took about three hours. I was told that I was being granted asylum. I had won the case, but by law, there’s a 30-day period during which an appeal can be filed — and until that period ends, you remain in detention. Appeals are filed in almost every case, but in my situation, the prosecutor said there was no reason to appeal. In total, I spent nine and a half months in detention. I was released in April. They wished me well. An ICE officer congratulated me on being granted asylum and wished me all the best. “Welcome to America,” he said.

When I was released, they gave me back my Russian international passport, but no other documents. Later, my lawyers sent me the court’s decision. I walked out with nothing — no place to stay, nothing to eat. A friend took me in. To get back on my feet, I applied for government assistance. I’m also required to attend language school — otherwise, the benefits will be cut off. I’m planning to look for work, but I still need to wait a few more weeks to get my Social Security number. And then there are long waits — two to three months — just to get a driver’s license. For now, I’m driving with my Russian license.

My wife is still in Russia, and she hasn’t had any problems so far. We do have plans for her to join me, but it’s unclear how to make that happen. Family reunification is only possible after I get a green card, and the application process takes anywhere from three to five years.

Maxim (awaiting a decision in the U.S.): “We lost hope there — and now we’re losing it here too”

When the war in Ukraine began, I started an anti-war Telegram channel. When mobilization was announced, I left for Kazakhstan for three months, but then returned to Russia. Even then, my wife and I understood that staying in Russia was dangerous for us. So we sold everything we could and, in November 2023, flew to Mexico. There, we registered in the U.S. Customs and Border Protection app, CBP One, and started trying to get a border crossing appointment — just like everyone else.

We didn’t have much money, and the wait lasted over 260 days. We had to be extremely frugal. In July 2024, when we finally got a border crossing appointment, we felt a glimmer of hope. We were assigned to Calexico, California. I thought we’d be interviewed, but instead, we were just yelled at and searched very roughly. I was wearing a hoodie — they cut the drawstring off with a knife, nearly slicing my face. They told me, “Shut up and wait.”

After the search — they took our shoelaces, belts, and so on — they fingerprinted us and put us in handcuffs, tightening them so hard my wrists hurt and had marks on them. No one explained what was going to happen next. My wife and I were separated and interrogated. Neither of us speaks English very well, and the interpreter they gave us wasn’t much help either.

A USCIS officer asked me questions: Who are you? Why are you here? Who is the woman with you? You have to say right away, at the very first step, that you're requesting political asylum. They also searched our phones. I had hardly gotten any sleep and felt like I was trapped in a nightmare. You’re holding the phone, the interpreter is mistranslating things, and your life depends on how they interpret his words.

On the second day, I was allowed to say goodbye to my wife, who was being sent to a different detention center. They returned my suitcase, handcuffed me behind my back, and put me into a minivan with barred windows. They drove me somewhere and took me out by a large building. We were lined up and searched thoroughly. I could tell right away this was a prison. They took us to a small room with metal benches where we stayed for about 12 hours. During that time, we were fed only once. Afterward, they moved us to large rooms about the size of a gym. Each holds around 64 people, with bunk beds forming four-person compartments. Each bed is assigned a number. You stop being Maxim or whoever you are — you become a bed number and are expected to respond to it.

I spent over five months in detention. Those months were a terrible ordeal, both mentally and physically. I have multiple chronic illnesses that require pain medication. On the third day, I was taken to the medical unit, examined, and then sent back. I couldn’t sleep and just stared at a single spot on the wall. The guys in our unit said that Russians, Moldovans, Uzbeks, Georgians, and Kyrgyz were no longer being released from detention. And it turned out to be true. Latin Americans, Africans, Pakistanis, and Indians were released about a week after their interviews.

Only two detainees, both LGBTQ+, managed to find lawyers. No one wanted to take political cases. LGBTQ+ cases were considered easier, as were religious ones: in the camp, there were a handful of Jehovah’s Witnesses, who are labeled extremists in Russia. I had to learn to defend myself. I studied whatever I could. I realized that the judges have country reports and are aware of what’s happening in Russia. But at the hearing, the judge said I would be deported back to Russia.

They told me, “You’re done for — she doesn’t like Russia.” The courts are oriented toward deportation. Many people with strong political cases were somehow convinced they could manage without a lawyer. They all lost. I see a trend: they’ve stopped granting asylum to Russians. At most, it’s protection from deportation.

I was suffering from an ear infection and waited two months for a doctor’s appointment. In the end, the immigration officer didn’t let me see the doctor. “What if I had a stroke?” I asked — “Feel free to apply for deportation.” That was their response to any complaint. In detention, a man tried to commit suicide. They found a razor blade among his things and sent him to solitary confinement. He ended up biting through his veins, and only then did they give him medical help. Some Russians tried to hang themselves. I was very sick — even the painkillers they gave me stopped working. It was painful to watch what diabetics were going through. They just had their blood sugar measured — that was it.

One day during the walk, I met a man who said he’d been transported together with my wife. It turned out she’d been brought to the same detention center. Starting from the third hearing, we began attending court sessions together. They would bring us in separately, seat us together, then take us away separately again. After a while, they allowed weekly one-hour visits. The supervision was strict: we weren't allowed to touch each other. There were moments when the guards would rush over, yelling: “No physical contact.”

Some Russians were separated from their families — the wife was sent to Louisiana, the child to a foster home. Some received letters from their wives saying they were applying for voluntary deportation. I don’t know what changed, but around New Year’s, they started releasing people who had been held for a long time — five or six months. My wife was released in December, and I was released in January.

Right now, we’re living in one of the states, waiting for our court hearing, which won’t happen anytime soon. We found a sponsor and got health insurance. We’re not allowed to work. Any violation means being sent back to detention. We lived in fear at home — and we still live in fear in the U.S. We have to hold on, wait, and then apply for a work permit if everything goes well. We’re still running our Telegram channel and have no plans to stop.

We’ve lost everything — our life in Russia, our hope there, and our hope here. I understand that I have no rights; they are simply letting me stay — for now. Your life doesn’t belong to you. But we can’t go back to Russia. Those who get deported to Russia disappear — no one hears from them again. They’re sent back with their documents, their phones, and their immigration cases. Once they arrive in Russia and go through border control — that’s it. Game over.

Dmitry Valuev, head of Russian America for Democracy in Russia, describes the situation at the border as “dire”:

“Refugees from Russia who have been applying for asylum since mid-2024 started being placed in so-called detention centers (immigration prisons). Almost all of them are cut off from the outside world. There is speculation that in May or June 2024, a non-public but official government order appeared, stating that citizens of certain post-Soviet countries, including Russia, must be held in detention until their cases are fully reviewed.

Not a single immigration lawyer has been able to obtain an official copy of this decree. It’s unclear who even issued it. Various indirect signs suggest that it concerns citizens of several countries: Russia, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan. According to some reports, Moldova and possibly Armenia may have been included as well.

Citizens of these countries were accumulating in abnormal numbers in detention centers. People from other countries were released after a couple of days, or a week at most. The share of Russians reached 50–60%, despite the proportion of Russians among refugees being much smaller than that of Latin Americans.”

Despite persistent rumors about special orders regarding Russians, some doubt the existence of such regulations. “If you talk to lawyers handling cases of other nationalities, they will say the same,” immigration attorney Alina Kats told The Insider. According to her, everyone must prepare very thoroughly when applying for political asylum, as prosecutors are now appealing 90% of approved asylum cases. According to Kats:

“In the fall of 2024, we created the ‘Detentions Project.’ We facilitate communication between family members separated in detention and offer free translations of documents. Fortunately, immigration courts accept paperwork from volunteer translators. The flow of refugees has decreased recently, and court dates are being moved up.

We seek opportunities to provide people with legal advice. In some cases, we pay for one-time consultations with lawyers. Sometimes we manage to find a pro bono lawyer, although this is difficult and rare.

If a case isn’t prepared, if people go in cold, it often ends in failure. Right now we’re helping around 100 people — that’s 60 families. Some families have more than four members. Families with children are the hardest cases. Children are separated from their parents and placed in shelters or foster care. It’s a tragedy for everyone.

If you intend to seek political asylum in the U.S., be prepared for what lies ahead. Truly hopeless situations are rare, but it’s important to be informed and well-prepared, to follow a step-by-step plan — and, ideally, to hire a lawyer.”