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The Long Goodbye: A California Couple Self-Deports to Mexico
Enrique Castillejos and his wife stopped at a Winchell’s Donut House. It was part of their after-church routine on Friday nights.
That evening’s sermon had been about finding peace in God in turbulent times, and they felt it spoke directly to them. Enrique, 63, and his wife, Maria Elena Hernandez, 55, were undocumented immigrants. Like millions of others in Southern California, they had been looking over their shoulders as federal agents conducted immigration sweeps.
Freedom, they felt, had become impossible in the land of the free. They had made a decision: Leave America and move back to Mexico.
The process has the sterile, bureaucratic name of self-deportation. For Enrique and Maria Elena, it resembled a long, slow-motion goodbye. It took an emotional, spiritual and logistical toll on everyone around them, including their three children and two grandchildren. They had to decide what to do with their old, beloved dog and their trucking business. They had to suddenly cut ties with their church and their neighbors. Visitors bearing gifts dropped by unannounced.
Maria Elena had suggested to Enrique that he leave for Mexico first, while she waited for her broken foot to heal. “No,” she recalled Enrique telling her. “Together we came and together we go.”
Their decision to go came long before the Trump administration’s crackdown in Minneapolis, and long before federal operations intensified in their own San Bernardino County neighborhood. Returning to Mexico had always been in the cards. But they had wanted to go on their own terms, retiring there someday. The Trump administration’s crackdown had prompted them to make that “someday” now.
The couple’s departure hit the family hard. They watch the news now with conflicting emotions, as Enrique and Maria Elena start their lives over in Mexico and their adult children struggle to carry on without them. None of the couple’s friends or relatives tried to change their minds, and there were few heated debates over the decision. In their community, the federal immigration raids made such an extreme move seem entirely reasonable.
“It’s a mixture of all those feelings — being grateful for knowing that they’re safe, and at the same time, hating that this is the way it has to be,” said Lizbeth Castillejos, 29, the couple’s oldest daughter.
Back at the coffee shop, Maria Elena and Enrique could feel the clock tick. It was Aug. 8. They had just two weeks left. Their nearly 30 years in the United States were coming to an end.
“Ya casi,” Enrique told her: Almost time.
Maria Elena set down her coffee cup. “Ya casi,” she repeated.
Maria Elena had to squeeze her belongings into just a few suitcases. She insisted on taking a little piece of home with her: her curtains.
Some were thin and delicate, others thick to dampen sound. Gold, red, green — a color for every season. They had rented the house in Bloomington, an unincorporated community some 50 miles east of Los Angeles, for more than 10 years. It was semirural, with dirt sidewalks and residents on horseback. Outside, Enrique kept chickens in the backyard. Inside, Maria Elena had her curtains.
To make room in the luggage for them, Maria Elena took out all the socks. Her younger daughter, Helen, 23, a schoolteacher, told her not to worry because they could get new things in Mexico.
Eventually, Maria Elena gave up. Leaving America meant leaving her curtains, too.
It was lunchtime. Maria Elena and Enrique had just sat down at the kitchen table, plates of bistec, white rice, black beans and diced cactus spread out before them.
There was a sudden pounding at the door. For a moment, the conversation grew quiet.
For months, masked immigration agents had seemed to appear everywhere in Southern California, and fear gripped entire communities. Except for doctor’s appointments for her broken foot and strategically timed trips to the market, Maria Elena had stopped leaving the house.
One day, Enrique had called his daughter Lizbeth, who works for a local immigrant rights group. A white sedan was tailing him. He thought it might be ICE.
Nothing had come of it, but it was another sign that life as they knew it in the United States was over.
They were afraid of being picked up by agents, not so much because of the threat of deportation but because of the uncertainty of detention. One goal of the Trump administration’s mass deportation campaign is to effectively scare people into self-deporting while dangling financial incentives to leave. Enrique and Maria Elena had decided not to accept the administration’s offer of $1,000 and a flight home to migrants who deport themselves because they did not trust the government to honor the arrangement.
Ultimately, there had been no dramatic incident that spurred their departure; they had simply grown weary, day after day, of watching their world shrink to fit only the bounds of their home.
“He said he would go after criminals, and we don’t consider ourselves criminals,” Maria Elena said of the president, adding, “We consider ourselves working people. It turns out, for him, we’re all criminals.”
Although they were living in America illegally, the couple saw no contradiction in that: Undocumented immigrants were part of the fabric of everyday life in Southern California. Over time, it didn’t seem especially risky.
Still, they expressed regret that they had never obtained legal status. In 2006, Maria Elena and her children had joined protests in Los Angeles demanding amnesty for undocumented immigrants. The family had also discussed another pathway: If one of their children joined the military, Maria Elena and Enrique could get the right to stay. Each of their three children had seriously considered signing up when they turned 18. But the couple never wanted their children to set aside their dreams and careers for their parents.
Were immigration agents now at the front door? Responding to the pounding, Enrique and Maria Elena’s son, Joaquin, 26, bolted to open it. It was their close friend, Kiké, dropping by to say hello.
Everyone was anxious about Rex, the family’s scruffy 14-year-old dog. Maria Elena and Enrique had decided to put Rex down before they left. He was ailing, could hardly walk and was in constant pain.
Rex had seen Joaquin and Helen grow from children to adults. One day, when Joaquin was away in college, he learned his parents were giving the dog to a family friend because Rex had been killing chickens in the backyard. Joaquin raced home. He took Rex in himself.
This time, Joaquin was not stepping in to save him. Everyone had agreed that Rex was suffering. Still, saying goodbye to the dog was like saying goodbye to a member of the family. Rex was a “constant,” as Helen put it, and those constants were ending as the family prepared for self-deportation.
“It needs to be done soon,” Helen told her dad over dinner as they discussed when to put down Rex. But she didn’t want it done this soon.
“Right now, there’s too much loss,” she added. “I can’t do both.”
A nervous Enrique stood at the front of the church and clutched the microphone. He was telling the congregation, with Maria Elena standing at his side, that they were leaving for Mexico.
To Enrique, it wasn’t so much the president’s will, but God’s.
He saw self-deportation as an opportunity to spread the word of God to his family back in his hometown of Mapastepec, near the plot of land in rural Chiapas where they had decided to move. He found comfort in Psalms 37, which says that God does not forsake those who believe.
Every Sunday, Enrique carried a composition book with notes on Scripture and a Bible with his name scrawled on the side. Maria Elena brought a tambourine for the hymns. And in the house, Enrique led prayers before meals.
For Maria Elena, leaving the United States was a way for her to come clean with God. For years, the couple said, Enrique had been using another person’s identity — a common but illegal way for undocumented immigrants to get the paperwork they need to work in the country. They said that not long after arriving in the United States, a friend had helped Enrique use the identity of a Honduran who had work authorization. Last year, the Trump administration moved to end that type of work authorization, making it harder for Enrique to keep using that identity.
Guilt weighed on Maria Elena. “We got tired of living in a lie,” she said, adding, “We have to be good before God. You can’t be a child of God and lie with two names.”
She already had a name for the plot of farmland awaiting them in their native Chiapas: Rancho La Promesa de Dios. God’s Promise Ranch.
At the church, a long line formed before them. For half an hour, one by one, congregants gave them tearful hugs.
Michael, 2, bounced around the living room, his brightly colored toys scattered all over the tiled floor. Olivia, 4, was fixated on a cartoon on the television.
Maria Elena was on grandmother duty.
Grandma and Grandpa’s house was where the little ones learned Spanish, and where Enrique cut up fruit to feed them one piece at a time. It was days like these that the grandparents cherished. It was days like these that made Maria Elena cry.
“It’s only when I look at my grandchildren and say to myself, ‘Who is going to take care of them?’”
Enrique grabbed his belongings from the old turquoise Toyota. His longtime friend who had dropped by to say hello that one day, Kiké, was there to pick it up. For Enrique, it meant the old clunker was one less thing he had to get rid of.
Kiké and Enrique had much in common, including their names. Kiké is short for Enrique. The two men are from the same town in Mexico, and they ended up here in the same place in America.
Kiké was sad to see them go, but he, too, was contemplating leaving because of the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown.
“A lot of fellow paisans are wanting to leave,” he said. “It doesn’t look like this thing is going to get resolved. It’s going from bad to worse.”
Each sibling took turns on the mic.
It was Enrique and Maria Elena’s farewell party, at a nearby property. Earlier that day, the family had said goodbye to Rex before putting him down. At the party, a mariachi belted out Christian ballads. Butterflies — a symbol of migration — decorated a towering fruit spread.
Joaquin said he would miss the little things, like stopping by on his lunch break for his mom’s beans.
Helen, the youngest, talked about how there was always mom and dad. When her older siblings had moved out, she had remained. Now, for the first time, the unit of three — Helen, Maria Elena and Enrique — would be apart.
Lizbeth tried to focus on the positive.
She said this was a fresh chapter. Their parents’ legacy in America would live on. Three college-educated children with dignified careers. And two grandchildren, one old enough to express her wish to spend every summer in Chiapas.
On the party invitation cards Lizbeth had sent out weeks earlier, there was nothing that suggested the gravity of self-deportation. The occasion was simply titled “New Beginnings.”
It was Aug. 24. Sixteen days had passed since that stop at the donut shop after church.
At the house in Bloomington, after instant coffee and pan dulce, the family huddled in the living room and bowed their heads. This was the day Maria Elena and Enrique were self-deporting.
“This morning, our father, we’re grateful to you because you have kept us here in this land, in this country for 29 years,” Enrique said. “And we thank you because you never abandoned us.”
Then they squeezed into the van and set course for the two-hour trip to the border crossing in San Diego.
In the blink of an eye, as they crossed into Mexico, 29 years reset to zero. This was the couple’s first time returning to Mexico together. It was their home country, but a sense of wonder seemed to overtake Maria Elena and Enrique. They had entered the United States nearly three decades ago, crossing that same border on foot. They had initially intended to stay for a few years, save up money and return to Mexico, but after they had children, their plans changed.
“Saliendo del sueño Americano y ahora entramos al sueño Mexicano,” Maria Elena told her family in the van: Leaving the American dream and now entering the Mexican dream.
A bright day greeted them in Tijuana as they strolled through downtown. Maria Elena ambled around on a scooter for her broken foot, feeling out of place. Joaquin put his arms around her, trying to cheer her up. They planned to stay at a relative’s house until their flight to Chiapas.
In the months to come, Maria Elena and Enrique would try to adjust to life in Mexico. They would stay with relatives, and make slow progress fixing up a small dwelling on their plot of land. They would find themselves at times overwhelmed and homesick.
But before all of that, on this first bright day in Tijuana, Enrique pulled out his Mexican I.D. and smiled. It might have felt like any other family trip. The political forces and fears that had forced them to leave went unspoken.
After the siblings had dropped off their parents in Mexico and headed back home in the van, they felt a sense of optimism as they waited in the long line at the port of entry. Vendors selling churros, chips and religious ornaments paced between cars.
Joaquin lamented that there was no time for a final Dodgers game with his dad or a family trip to the beach.
Lizbeth assured him there would plenty of memories for them to make in Chiapas.
Helen, the schoolteacher, was anxious to get home and prepare her lesson plan for the week. She read aloud a list her mom had given her. It had all of the things she had forgotten to pack but wanted from home the next time she saw them.
“No. 1,” Helen read aloud in the van, “look for my earrings.”
Hours had passed when a customs agent finally waved them into the United States. Soon, everyone except the driver slipped into a slumber, and the road home was quiet.
They slowly woke up as the car rolled up to the house in Bloomington.
Olivia, 4, realized she was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Then, it dawned on her. Grandma and Grandpa were not there. She cried out for them.
The siblings embraced in the middle of the driveway. Their parents had once described what it felt like to leave life behind in America. They said it felt like a kind of death.
Lizbeth, surrounded that night with her loved ones on the driveway of her parents’ empty house, felt the same way, too. She called it grief.
News
Mojtaba Khamenei, son of former supreme leader, tipped to become Iran’s next head of state
Mojtaba Khamenei, the second son of the assassinated Ali Khamenei, is being heavily tipped to succeed his father as supreme leader of Iran, which would pitch a hardliner into the task of steering the Islamic republic through the most turbulent period in its 48-year history and offer a powerful signal that, for now, it has no intention of changing course.
No official confirmation has been given and the announcement may be delayed until after the funeral of Ali Khamenei, which was on Wednesday postponed.
His son is believed to have been the choice of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), and the Israeli defence minister, Gideon Saar, has warned he will be assassinated.
Ayatollah Seyed Khatani, a member of the Assembly of Experts, the body that chooses the new supreme leader, said the assembly was close to selecting a leader.
Rigid in his anti-western views, Mojtaba Khamenei is not the candidate Donald Trump would have wanted. Marco Rubio, the US secretary of state, said on Tuesday that Iran was run by “religious fanatic lunatics” – and Khamenei’s appointment is hardly likely to dispel that opinion.
The choice of supreme leader is made by the 88-strong Assembly of Experts, who in this case are picking from a field of six possible candidates. His election would be a powerful if unsurprising symbol that the government is not looking to find an accommodation with America.
Trump has said the worst-case scenario would be if Khamenei’s successor was “as bad as the previous person”.
There has been speculation for more than a decade that he would be his father’s successor, which grew when Ebrahim Raisi, the elected president and favourite of Khamenei, was killed in a helicopter crash.
Mojtaba Khamenei was born in 1969 and studied theology after graduating from high school. At the age of 17, he went to serve in the Iran-Iraq war, but it was not until the late 1990s that he came to be recognised as a public figure in his own right.
After the landslide defeat of Khamenei’s preferred candidate, Ali Akbar Nategh Nuri, in the 1997 presidential election, where he won only 25% of the final vote, various conservative Iranian groups realised the need to make changes to their structures and Mojtaba Khamenei was central to that project.
He was also seen as instrumental by reformists in suppressing the protests in 2009 that came after allegations the presidential election had been rigged, with his name chanted in the streets as one of those responsible. Mostafa Tajzadeh, a senior member of Iran’s reformist parties who was imprisoned after the vote, alleged that his and his wife, Fakhr al-Sadat Mohtashamipour’s, legal case was under the direct supervision of Mojtaba Khamenei.
In 2022 he was given the title of ayatollah – essential to his promotion. By then he was a regular figure by his father’s side at political meetings, as well as playing an influential role in the Islamic Republic’s Broadcasting Corporation, the government’s official media outlet often criticised for churning out dull political propaganda that many Iranians reject in favour of overseas satellite channels. He has also played a central role in the administration of his father’s substantial financial empire.
His closest political allies are Ahmad Vahidi, the newly appointed IRGC commander; Hossein Taeb, a former head of the IRGC’s intelligence organisation; and Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf, the current speaker of the parliament.
His rumoured appointment and its hereditary nature has long been resisted by reformists. The former prime minister Mir Hossein Mousavi, referring to the long history of rumours about Mojtaba Khamenei succeeding his father as leader, wrote in 2022: “News of this conspiracy have been heard for 13 years. If they are not truly pursuing it, why don’t they deny such an intention once and for all?”
The Assembly of Experts, in response, denounced “meaninglessness of doubts” and said the assembly would select only “the most qualified and the most suitable”.
Israel on Tuesday struck the building in the Iranian city of Qom, one of Shia Islam’s main seats of power, where the assembly was scheduled, but the building was empty, according to IRGC-affiliated media.
News
Video: Senators Question Kristi Noem on ICE Immigration Tactics
new video loaded: Senators Question Kristi Noem on ICE Immigration Tactics
transcript
transcript
Senators Question Kristi Noem on ICE Immigration Tactics
Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem repeatedly refused to apologize for suggesting that Alex Pretti and Renee Good, two U.S. citizens shot and killed by agents, were domestic terrorists.
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What we’ve seen is a disaster under your leadership, Ms. Noem. A disaster. What we’ve seen is innocent people getting detained that turn out are American citizens. I could talk about the culture that’s been created here. After the killings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, when I spoke to Alex’s parents, they told me that you calling him a domestic terrorist — this was directly from them — the day after he was killed, a nurse in our V.A., Alex — one of the most hurtful things they could ever imagine was said by you about their son. Do you have anything you want to say to Alex Pretti’s parents? Ma’am, I did not call him a domestic terrorist. I said It appeared to be an incident of — I think the parents saw it for what it was. In a hearing — recent hearing before the HSGAC committee, C.B.P. and ICE officials testified under oath that their agencies did not inform you that Pretti was a domestic terrorist — during that hearing, stated during that hearing, I was getting reports from the ground, from agents at the scene, and I would say that it was a chaotic scene. How did you think that calling them domestic terrorists at that scene was somehow going to calm the situation? The fact that you can’t admit to a mistake, which looks like under investigation, it’s going to prove that Ms. Good and Mr. Pretti probably should not have been shot in the face and in the back. Law enforcement needs to learn from that. You don’t protect them by not looking after the facts.
By Christina Kelso and Jackeline Luna
March 3, 2026
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Pregnant migrant girls are being sent to a Texas shelter flagged as medically risky
The Trump administration is sending pregnant unaccompanied minors to a South Texas shelter (above) flagged as medically inadequate by officials from the Office of Refugee Resettlement. The facility is run by a for-profit contractor called Urban Strategies.
Patricia Lim/KUT News
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Patricia Lim/KUT News
The Trump administration is sending all pregnant unaccompanied minors apprehended by immigration enforcement to a single group shelter in South Texas. The decision was made over urgent objections from some of the administration’s own health and child welfare officials, who say both the facility and the region lack the specialized care the girls need.
That’s according to seven officials who work at the Office of Refugee Resettlement within the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, which takes custody of children who cross the border without a parent or legal guardian, or are separated from family by immigration authorities. The children remain in ORR’s care until they can be released to an adult or deported, or turn 18.
All of the officials asked not to be named for fear of retaliation.
Since late July, more than a dozen pregnant minors have been placed at the Texas facility, which is in the small border city of San Benito. Some were as young as 13, and at least half of those taken in so far became pregnant as a result of rape, the officials said. Their pregnancies are considered high risk by definition, particularly for the youngest girls.
“This group of kids is clearly recognized as our most vulnerable,” one of the officials said. Rank-and-file staff, the official said, are “losing sleep over it, wondering if kids are going to be placed in programs where they’re not going to have access to the care they need.”
The move marks a sharp departure from longstanding federal practice, which placed pregnant, unaccompanied migrant children in ORR shelters or foster homes around the country that are equipped to handle high-risk pregnancies.
The ORR officials said they were never told why the girls are being concentrated in a single location, let alone in this particular shelter in Texas. But they — along with more than a dozen former government officials, health care professionals, migrant advocates and civil rights attorneys — worry the Trump administration is knowingly putting the children at risk to advance an ideological goal: denying them access to abortion by placing them in a state where it’s virtually banned.
“This is 100% and exclusively about abortion,” said Jonathan White, a longtime federal health official who ran ORR’s unaccompanied children program for part of President Trump’s first term. White, who recently retired from the government, said the administration tried and failed to restrict abortion access for unaccompanied minors in 2017. “Now they casually roll out what they brutally fought to accomplish last time and didn’t.”
Asked if the administration is sending pregnant children to San Benito to restrict their access to abortion, HHS said in a statement that the allegation was “completely inaccurate.”
In an earlier statement, the department said that “ORR’s placement decisions are guided by child welfare best practices and are designed to ensure each child is housed in the safest, most developmentally appropriate setting, including for children who are pregnant or parenting.”
But several of the ORR officials took issue with the department’s statement. “ORR is supposed to be a child welfare organization,” one of them said. “Putting pregnant kids in San Benito is not a decision you make when you care about children’s safety.”
ORR’s acting director, Angie Salazar, instructed agency staff to send “any pregnant children” to San Benito beginning July 22, 2025, according to an internal email obtained as part of a six-month investigation by The California Newsroom and The Texas Newsroom, public media collaboratives that worked together to produce this story.
A copy of the July 22, 2025, email notifying ORR supervisors of the directive to send pregnant unaccompanied minors to a single shelter in San Benito, Texas. The move comes over objections from the government’s own health and child welfare officials.
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Several of the officials said a handful of pregnant girls have mistakenly been placed in other shelters because immigration authorities didn’t know they were pregnant when they were transferred to ORR custody.
Since the July order, none of the pregnant girls at the San Benito facility have experienced major medical problems, according to the ORR officials and Aimee Korolev, deputy director of ProBAR, an organization that provides legal services to children there. They said several of the girls have given birth and are detained with their infants.
But ORR officials interviewed for this story said they worry the shelter is only one high-risk pregnancy away from catastrophe.
“I feel like we’re just waiting for something terrible to happen,” one of the officials said.
‘Blown away by the level of risk’
There are dozens of ORR shelters or foster homes across the country that are designated to care for pregnant unaccompanied children, according to several of the ORR officials, with 12 in Texas alone. None of them could recall a time when all of the pregnant minors in the agency’s custody were concentrated in one shelter.
Detaining them in San Benito, Texas, doctors and public health experts said, is a dangerous gambit.
“It’s not good to be a pregnant person in Texas, no matter who you are,” said Annie Leone, a nurse midwife who recently spent five years caring for pregnant and postpartum migrant women and girls at a large family shelter not far from San Benito. “So, to put pregnant migrant kids in Texas, and then in one of the worst health care regions of Texas, is not good at all.”
The specialized obstetric care that exists in Texas is mostly available in its larger cities, hours from San Benito. And several factors, including the high number of uninsured patients, have eroded the availability of health care across the state.
Furthermore, Texas’ near-ban on abortion has been especially devastating to obstetric care. The law allows an exception in cases where the pregnant person’s life is in danger or one of her bodily functions is at risk, but doctors have been confused as to what that means.
Many doctors have left to practice elsewhere, and those who’ve stayed are often scared to perform procedures they worry could come with criminal charges. While Texas passed a law clarifying the exceptions last year, experts have said it may not be enough to assuage doctors’ fears.
Several maternal health experts listed the potential dangers for the girls at the San Benito shelter: If one of them develops an ectopic pregnancy (where the fertilized egg implants outside the uterus), if she miscarries or if her water breaks too early and she gets an infection, the emergency care she needs could be delayed or denied by doctors wary of the abortion ban.
Getting the care that is available could take too long to save her life or the baby’s, they added.
Adolescents are also more likely to give birth early, which can be life-threatening for both mother and baby. The youngest face complications during labor and delivery because their pelvises aren’t fully developed, said Dr. Anne-Marie Amies Oelschlager, an obstetrician in Washington state who specializes in adolescent pregnancy.
“These are young adolescents who are still going through puberty,” she said. “Their bodies are still changing.”
Pregnant girls who recently endured the often harrowing journey to the U.S. face even more risk, obstetrics experts said. Experts who work with migrant children say many are raped along the way and contract sexually transmitted infections that can be dangerous during pregnancy. Add to that little to no access to prenatal care or proper nourishment, and then the trauma of being detained.
“You couldn’t set up a worse scenario,” said Dr. Blair Cushing, who runs a women’s health clinic in McAllen, about 45 minutes from San Benito. “I’m kind of blown away by the level of risk that they’re concentrating in this facility.”
A history of problems
The San Benito shelter is owned and operated by Urban Strategies, a for-profit company that has contracted with the federal government to care for unaccompanied children for more than a decade, according to USAspending.gov.
Meliza Fonseca lives across the street from the San Benito shelter. She said she occasionally sees kids in the yard on weekends, “but for the most part, you don’t see them.”
Patricia Lim/KUT
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Patricia Lim/KUT
The main building, an old tan brick Baptist Church, occupies a city block in downtown San Benito, a quiet town of about 25,000. The church was converted to a migrant shelter in 2015 and was managed by two other contractors before Urban Strategies took it over in 2021.
On a fall day last year, there were no signs of activity at the facility, though children’s lawn toys and playground equipment were visible behind a wooden fence. A guard was stationed at one of the entrances.
“It’s pretty quiet, just like it is today,” said Meliza Fonseca, who lives nearby. “That’s the way it is every day.”
She said she occasionally sees kids playing in the yard on weekends, “but for the most part, you don’t see them.”
Reached by email, the founder and president of Urban Strategies, Lisa Cummins, wrote that the company is “deeply committed to the care and well-being of the children we serve,” and directed any questions about ORR-contracted shelters to the federal government.
When asked about the San Benito facility, HHS wrote that “Urban Strategies has a long-standing record of delivering high-quality care to pregnant unaccompanied minors, with a consistently low staff turnover.”
But the ORR officials who spoke with the newsrooms said that as recently as 2024, staff members at the shelter failed to arrange timely medical appointments for pregnant girls or immediately share critical health information with the federal agency and discharged some of them without arrangements to continue their medical care.
ORR barred the shelter from receiving pregnant girls from September to December of 2024 while Urban Strategies implemented a remediation plan, but the plan did not add staff or enhance their qualifications, the officials said.
Some of the officials said ORR’s leadership was provided with a list of shelters that are better prepared to handle children with high-risk pregnancies. All of those shelters are outside Texas, in regions where the full range of necessary medical care is available. Yet the directive to place them at San Benito remains in place.
“It’s cruel, it’s just cruel,” one of the officials said. “They don’t care about any of these kids. They’re playing politics with children’s health.”
‘A dress rehearsal’
Jonathan White, who ran ORR’s unaccompanied children program from January of 2017 to March of 2018, said he wasn’t surprised to learn that the new administration is moving pregnant unaccompanied children to Texas.
“I’ve been expecting this since Trump returned to office,” White said in an interview.
He said he views the San Benito order as a continuation of an anti-abortion policy shift that began in 2017, which “ultimately proved to be a dress rehearsal for the current administration.”
Scott Lloyd, the agency’s director at the time, denied girls in ORR custody permission to end their pregnancies, court records show. Lloyd also required the girls to get counseling about the benefits of motherhood and the harms of abortion and personally pleaded with some of them to reconsider.
“I worked to treat all of the children in ORR care with dignity, including the unborn children,” Lloyd told the newsrooms in an email.
In the fall of 2017, the American Civil Liberties Union filed a class action lawsuit against Lloyd and the Trump administration on behalf of pregnant girls in ORR custody. The ACLU argued that denying the girls abortions violated their constitutional rights, established by the Supreme Court in its 1973 Roe v. Wade decision.
Not long after the lawsuit was filed, White said, he received a late-night phone call from Lloyd, who had a request. He wanted White to transfer an unaccompanied pregnant girl who was seeking an abortion to a migrant shelter in Texas, where, under state law, it would have been too late for her to terminate her pregnancy. White said that he believed following the order would have been unlawful because it might have denied the girl access to legal relief under the lawsuit, so he refused. The girl was not transferred.
Lloyd, who has since left the government, acknowledged making the request but said he didn’t think it was illegal.
The lawsuit was settled in 2020; the first Trump administration agreed not to impede abortion access for migrant youth in federal custody going forward. Four years later, the Biden administration cemented the deal in official regulations: If a child who wanted to terminate her pregnancy was detained in a state where it was not legal, ORR had to move them to a state where it was.
That rule remains in place, and the agency appears to be following it: ORR has transferred two pregnant girls out of Texas since July, though the agency officials said one of the girls chose not to terminate her pregnancy.
But now that Trump is back in office, his administration is working to end the policy.
‘Elegant and simple’
Even before Trump won reelection, policymakers in his circle were planning a renewed attempt to restrict abortion rights for unaccompanied minors.
Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation’s blueprint for a politically conservative overhaul of the federal government, called for ORR to stop facilitating abortions for children in its care. The plan advised the government not to detain unaccompanied children in states where abortion is available.
Such a change is now possible, Project 2025 argued, because Roe v. Wade is no longer an obstacle. Since the Supreme Court overturned the landmark decision in 2022, there is no longer a federal right to abortion.
Upon returning to office, Trump signed an executive order “to end the forced use of Federal taxpayer dollars to fund or promote elective abortion.”
Then, in early July, the Department of Justice reconsidered a longstanding federal law, known as the Hyde Amendment, that governs the use of taxpayer money for abortion. The DOJ concluded that the government cannot pay to transport detainees from one state to another to facilitate abortion access, except in cases of rape or incest or to save the life of the mother.
And now, ORR is working to rescind the Biden-era requirement that pregnant girls requesting an abortion be moved to states where it’s available. On Jan. 23, the agency submitted the proposed change for government approval, though it has not yet published the details.
Several of the ORR officials who spoke with the newsrooms said it’s unclear whether children in the agency’s custody who have been raped or need emergency medical care will still be allowed to get abortions.
“HHS does not comment on pending or pre-decisional rulemaking,” the department wrote when asked for details of the regulatory change. “ORR will continue to comply with all applicable federal laws, including requirements for providing necessary medical care to children in ORR custody.”
The day the change was submitted, an unnamed Health and Human Services spokesperson told The Daily Signal, a conservative news site, “Our goal is to save lives both for these young children that are coming across the border, that are pregnant, and to save the lives of their unborn babies.”
Experts who spoke with the newsrooms said it’s unclear why the government would concentrate pregnant children in one Texas shelter, rather than disperse them at shelters throughout the state. But they said they’re convinced that the San Benito directive and the anti-abortion rule change are meant to work hand in hand: Once pregnant children are placed at the San Benito shelter, the new regulations could mean they cannot be moved out of Texas to get abortions — even if keeping them there puts them at risk.
“It’s so elegant and simple,” said White, the former head of the unaccompanied children program. “All they have to do is send them to Texas.”
Mark Betancourt is a freelance journalist and regular contributor to The California Newsroom.
Mose Buchele with The Texas Newsroom contributed reporting.
This story was produced by The California Newsroom and The Texas Newsroom. The California Newsroom is a collaboration of public media outlets that includes NPR, CalMatters, KQED (San Francisco), LAist and KCRW (Los Angeles), KPBS (San Diego) and other stations across the state. The Texas Newsroom is a public radio journalism collaboration that includes NPR, KERA (North Texas), Houston Public Media, KUT (Austin), Texas Public Radio (San Antonio) and other stations across the state.
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