Zaida Martínez sits in her Havana home, haunted by the absence of her sons, Liosmel and Liosbel Sánchez. The walls that once echoed with laughter now bear the silence of uncertainty, as her children wait hundreds of miles away in the Eloy detention center in Arizona. "For a mother, the best thing is always to have her children by her side," Zaida confides to El País. "But I’m terribly afraid they’ll be returned to Cuba. I say this with great pain in my heart, but I hope they stay there before they’re taken here as prisoners."
Her fears are not unfounded. The Sánchez brothers, aged 25 and 28, are among the latest faces swept up in the tightening net of U.S. immigration enforcement, their story a microcosm of the broader anxieties gripping Cuban families on both sides of the Florida Straits. The brothers entered the United States at the end of 2024 under the CBP One humanitarian parole program, seeking political asylum after years of repression in Cuba. On May 20, 2025, they attended what should have been a routine immigration court appointment in Phoenix. Instead, they were detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), thrust into a legal limbo that now leaves them facing the prospect of deportation.
The roots of their predicament stretch back to July 11, 2021, when Cuba erupted in the largest anti-government protests in over half a century. Liosmel, the younger brother and a former medical student, was at the heart of it. "We knew it was coming, that people would take to the streets," recalls his friend Cristhian González de la Moneda, speaking to El País. The country was a powder keg—reeling from a collapsed economy, medicine shortages, and the government’s tight grip on information during the pandemic. Liosmel and his friends, who had started out as a meme movement on Twitter, found themselves swept into politics. "We didn’t go looking for politics; politics found us," Cristhian says.
On that fateful day, the brothers joined crowds of Cubans chanting "Patria y Vida" as they marched to the Havana Capitol, demanding change. The government’s response was swift and brutal: over 1,500 people were arrested, with some facing sentences of up to 20 years. Though the Sánchez brothers avoided prison, they did not escape the regime’s reach. Liosbel’s small plumbing business was subject to constant inspections, while Liosmel endured repeated interrogations at his medical school. "They were threatened," Zaida says. "Liosmel was told that he could even lose his career. That’s why they decided to leave Cuba, because they could no longer bear the injustices they experienced on a daily basis and knew that at any moment they would come for them and take them to prison if they stayed here with their ideas against the regime."
Once in the United States, the brothers spent several months in Seattle, living with Cristhian, who himself had fled Cuba after being threatened for his involvement in the protests. The transition was not easy, but they found solace in each other's company and the hope of a new beginning. They waited patiently for work permits, filled their new apartment with small comforts—a television, dishes, a dish rack—and began to dream of a future free from fear.
That fragile sense of security was shattered when ICE detained them after their court hearing. "My world fell apart," Cristhian recalls. "I thought it was a mistake, that they were going to release them." Zaida, too, was left in agonizing suspense, her messages to her sons going unanswered until the grim truth emerged.
Their detention is part of a broader trend under the Trump administration, which has made it increasingly difficult for asylum seekers from countries like Cuba and Venezuela to find protection in the U.S. According to El País, even those with strong cases—like the Sánchez brothers, who have no criminal records and clear histories of political persecution—are being caught in a system that seems more intent on deterrence than due process. Immigration attorney Willy Allen, who has practiced for four decades, notes, "The government has to detain 3,000 people a day. It’s very difficult to find 3,000 criminals, but it’s very easy to find 3,000 people who show up in court and do everything right under the law." Allen adds, "They started closing cases to have the excuse to detain people without bail. In jail, they will have to undergo a credible fear interview, and only if they pass it can they stay."
Statistics from the American Immigration Council underscore the scale of the crisis: by the end of 2024, the U.S. had nearly 1.5 million pending asylum applications, and as of March 2025, the rejection rate had soared to 76%. This hardline approach has left even those fleeing clear political repression in "very vulnerable" conditions, Allen warns.
The plight of the Sánchez brothers is further complicated by shifting U.S. policies toward Cuba. As reported by the Winnipeg Free Press, President Trump’s recent "One Big Beautiful Bill" includes a provision imposing a 1% tax on all U.S. cash sent abroad. This move, affecting remittances that are a lifeline for millions across Latin America and the Caribbean, is expected to hit Cuba especially hard. Estimates put annual remittances from the U.S. to Cuba between $1.5 billion and $4 billion—funds that, as Winnipeg Free Press notes, "are in many ways keeping the country afloat today."
The new tax, combined with previous restrictions on money transfers and imports, is likely to deepen Cuba’s economic crisis. Many Cubans now rely on "mulas"—private couriers who carry cash and goods from the U.S.—to circumvent official channels closed off by sanctions. The Trump administration’s stated aim is to pressure the Cuban government, but critics argue the policy will only "make everyday life in Cuba more painful and unbearable," as Professor Peter McKenna of the University of Prince Edward Island writes. There’s also concern that such measures could backfire politically, alienating Cuban-American voters and straining U.S. relations across the region.
The Sánchez brothers’ story is emblematic of a broader struggle—a clash between those seeking freedom and opportunity, and a system increasingly defined by suspicion and exclusion. They are not alone: Cuban rapper Eliexer Márquez Duany, known as El Funky, and Venezuelan activist Gregory Antonio Sanabria Tarazona have also faced detention or denial of status despite clear records of persecution.
For now, Liosmel and Liosbel remain in detention, having passed their credible fear interview but awaiting an asylum hearing scheduled for late September 2025. Their fate hangs in the balance, a testament to the uncertainty that defines the lives of so many migrants today. As Zaida waits by her phone in Havana, hoping for a message from her sons, the questions raised by their ordeal linger: How many more families will be separated by policies meant to deter, not protect? And what future awaits those caught between the machinery of two governments—neither of which, it seems, is willing to offer them safe harbor?
In the end, the Sánchez brothers’ journey is a stark reminder of the human cost of policy—of the dreams deferred, the families divided, and the hopes that persist even in the face of overwhelming odds.
