In the quiet southern African kingdom of Eswatini, a story is unfolding that links the fates of deported men from around the globe to the controversial immigration policies of the United States. At the heart of this drama is Roberto Mosquera del Peral, a Cuban national who, after being deported from the U.S. in mid-July 2025, now finds himself on a hunger strike inside the walls of the Matsapha Correctional Complex near Mbabane.
Mosquera’s case, reported by the Associated Press and echoed by multiple news outlets, has become emblematic of the challenges and criticisms surrounding the Trump administration’s third-country deportation program. Introduced in July 2025, this program involves secretive agreements with several African nations—including Eswatini, Rwanda, South Sudan, and Ghana—to accept individuals convicted of serious crimes in the U.S. but who have completed their sentences. Uganda is also a partner, though no deportations there have yet been announced.
According to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Mosquera and others like him were convicted of grave offenses—murder, rape, and other violent crimes—and were living in the U.S. illegally. The department has described the third-country deportation program as a way to remove “illegal aliens” from American soil, offering deportees a stark choice: self-deport to their country of origin or be sent to a nation like Eswatini. Mosquera, for his part, was identified as a gang member and convicted murderer, facts that the U.S. government has used to justify his removal and continued detention.
Yet, the program has drawn sharp criticism from human rights advocates and attorneys representing the deportees. Mosquera’s U.S.-based lawyer, Alma David, has been particularly vocal. In a statement to the Associated Press on October 22, 2025, she painted a dire picture: “My client is arbitrarily detained, and now his life is on the line.” David’s concerns are not merely legal; they are urgent and deeply personal. She added, “I urge the Eswatini Correctional Services to provide Mr. Mosquera’s family and me with an immediate update on his condition and to ensure that he is receiving adequate medical attention. I demand that Mr. Mosquera be permitted to meet with his lawyer in Eswatini.”
For more than three months, Mosquera has been held without charge or access to legal counsel. According to his lawyer, he began his hunger strike around October 15, 2025, a desperate act to protest his continued detention and lack of basic rights. The Eswatini government, however, has characterized Mosquera’s actions differently, claiming he is “fasting and praying because he was missing his family,” and describing it as part of “religious practices” that would not be interfered with. David disputes this, insisting, “It is not a religious practice. It’s an act of desperation and protest.”
Mosquera is not alone in his predicament. He was one of five men deported to Eswatini from Cuba, Jamaica, Laos, Vietnam, and Yemen in July 2025. While the Jamaican man was repatriated to his home country in September, Mosquera and the others remain in Eswatini’s maximum-security prison. Their situation has prompted legal challenges both from an Eswatini-based attorney and from local civic groups, who have taken authorities to court to contest the legality of detaining foreign nationals without charge or access to legal counsel.
The controversy deepened in October 2025, when another group of ten deportees arrived at the same Matsapha Correctional Complex. These men hail from Vietnam, Cambodia, the Philippines, Cuba, Chad, Ethiopia, and Congo. Lawyers representing the detainees say that none of the four men who arrived in July have been permitted to meet with their Eswatini lawyer, and that all phone calls to their U.S.-based attorneys are monitored by prison guards. This, they argue, severely restricts their clients’ ability to mount any legal defense or challenge their detention.
According to Human Rights Watch, the U.S. has been paying African countries millions of dollars to accept these deportees—$5.1 million to Eswatini for up to 160 deportees and $7.5 million to Rwanda for up to 250. These payments, revealed in documents seen by the New York-based rights group, have raised further questions about the ethics and transparency of the program. The Trump administration has maintained that these agreements are necessary to address what it sees as a crisis of illegal immigration and to ensure that individuals convicted of serious crimes do not remain on U.S. soil after serving their sentences.
Eswatini, an absolute monarchy often criticized for its human rights record, has stated that the deportees will eventually be repatriated but may be held for up to a year. This stance has not satisfied critics, who point to the lack of charges, the absence of due process, and the restricted legal access as clear violations of international norms. The legal and civic challenges in Eswatini are ongoing, with local groups pressing the government to adhere to basic standards of justice and human rights.
Alma David, Mosquera’s lawyer, summed up the gravity of the situation: “The fact that my client has been driven to such drastic action highlights that he and the other 13 men must be released from prison. The governments of the United States and Eswatini must take responsibility for the real human consequences of their deal.” Her words underscore the human cost of policies that, while designed to address legitimate security and immigration concerns, risk trampling on the rights and dignity of some of the world’s most vulnerable individuals.
Meanwhile, the deportees remain in limbo. With communication monitored and legal access limited, their advocates struggle to provide updates on their well-being or to intervene effectively on their behalf. The hunger strike by Mosquera is a stark reminder of the desperation felt by those caught in the crosshairs of international agreements and domestic political priorities.
As the legal battles continue and international scrutiny intensifies, the fate of Mosquera and the other deportees remains uncertain. Their story, unfolding behind the walls of a distant prison, is a sobering testament to the complexities—and the very real human toll—of modern immigration enforcement.