On September 6, 2025, a diplomatic drama that had quietly unfolded across three continents reached a turning point at Juba International Airport in South Sudan. There, amid a flurry of officials and reporters, South Sudanese authorities repatriated Jesus Munoz-Gutierrez—a Mexican national who had been deported to the East African nation by the United States just two months earlier. His journey, marked by legal wrangling, international controversy, and personal anguish, shines a stark light on the complex and contentious practice of third-country deportations that has drawn fire from rights groups and sparked debate within the corridors of power.
According to South Sudan's foreign ministry, Munoz-Gutierrez was released into the custody of Mexico's ambassador-designate to South Sudan, Alejandro Estivill, who had arrived in Juba the previous day. The ministry emphasized that the repatriation was carried out "in full accordance with relevant international law, bilateral agreements, and established diplomatic protocols." In a further assurance, South Sudan stated that Mexico had provided guarantees that Munoz-Gutierrez would not face torture, inhumane treatment, or unfair prosecution upon his return—an important point given the international scrutiny surrounding such transfers.
Munoz-Gutierrez's story is emblematic of a broader and increasingly controversial trend. He was one of a group of eight individuals—hailing from countries including Cuba, Laos, Vietnam, and Mexico—who found themselves in government custody in South Sudan after being deported from the United States in July. Their journey was anything but straightforward. As CNN reported, the group was initially diverted to Djibouti, where they were held in a converted shipping container on a military base while the Trump administration fought for more than a month in federal court to send them to South Sudan.
At a press conference in Juba before boarding his flight home, Munoz-Gutierrez described his ordeal in stark terms. "I felt kidnapped by the US when I was sent to South Sudan," he told reporters, according to CNN. "I was not planning to come to South Sudan, but while I was here, they treated me well. I finished my time in the United States, and they were supposed to return me to Mexico. Instead, they wrongfully sent me to South Sudan." His remarks captured the bewilderment and frustration felt by many caught up in the web of third-country deportations—a practice that, as rights groups have argued, may violate international law and the basic rights of migrants.
The U.S. Department of Homeland Security, however, offered a sharply different perspective. Tricia McLaughlin, a spokesperson for the department, stated that Munoz-Gutierrez had "received due process and had a final order of removal." She went further, asserting, "All eight sent to South Sudan were egregious criminal illegal aliens. Aliens who commit these types of crimes are frequently not taken back by their home countries." The department also confirmed that Munoz-Gutierrez had a conviction for second-degree murder and had been sentenced to life in prison—a detail that underscores the fraught intersection of criminal justice, immigration policy, and international diplomacy.
The legal backdrop to these events is as tangled as the personal stories involved. In June 2025, the U.S. Supreme Court allowed the government to resume deportations to countries other than migrants' homelands, overturning lower court decisions that had temporarily blocked the practice. This ruling gave fresh impetus to the Trump administration's efforts to coordinate deportations with a range of African nations, including Uganda, Eswatini, and Rwanda.
Eswatini, for instance, received five men with criminal backgrounds in July. Rwanda announced the arrival of seven deportees in mid-August and, according to CNN, has recently reached an agreement to take in up to 250 migrants deported from the U.S. Uganda, for its part, has publicly insisted it will only accept limited cases. These arrangements have not gone unchallenged. Critics argue that sending migrants to countries with which they have no ties exposes them to unacceptable risks, especially in places like South Sudan, which has grappled with intercommunal violence since its independence in 2011.
Munoz-Gutierrez's legal team, along with lawyers representing the other detainees, argued in U.S. courts that their clients would face dangerous physical conditions in South Sudan. The concerns were not unfounded: the country has been mired in conflict and instability for much of its short history, and the prospect of being dropped into such an environment—without family, community, or support—was, by any measure, daunting.
Despite these objections, six of the original eight deportees remain in South Sudanese custody as of September 6, 2025. According to South Sudan's foreign ministry, the government is working with international partners to ensure the "safe and humane return" of these individuals to their respective home countries. One deportee, a South Sudanese citizen, was freed earlier, the Associated Press reported.
For South Sudan, the episode has been a test of its diplomatic agility and its commitment to international norms. The government has taken pains to emphasize its adherence to legal and humanitarian standards, both in its handling of the deportees and in its cooperation with foreign governments. "Juba said it remained committed to working with international partners to ensure the safe and humane return of six other third-country nationals currently in South Sudan after being deported from the United States," Reuters reported.
Meanwhile, the saga has fueled debate in the United States and beyond about the ethics and legality of third-country deportations. Rights groups continue to argue that the practice undermines fundamental protections for migrants and sets a troubling precedent. The U.S. government, on the other hand, maintains that it is simply enforcing the law and protecting public safety, particularly in cases involving serious criminal convictions.
For Jesus Munoz-Gutierrez, the ordeal is now over—at least for the time being. As he departed from Juba, he left behind a story that is far from unique but remains deeply unsettling. His journey, from a U.S. prison to a shipping container in Djibouti, to the custody of South Sudanese authorities, and finally back to Mexico, is a stark reminder of the human cost of immigration policy decisions made thousands of miles away.
As South Sudan continues to coordinate with international partners to resolve the cases of the remaining deportees, the world will be watching closely. The fate of these individuals, and the legality of the policies that sent them to Africa in the first place, remain unresolved questions—ones that strike at the heart of international law, human rights, and the meaning of justice in a globalized world.
