Waiting for Asylum: Navigating the Challenges and Uncertainty of the Process

Velázquez, a Venezuelan journalist reflects on a decade of waiting for asylum, the uncertainty of immigration proceedings, and the fear her family faces after her husband’s detention by ICE.

The One-Minute Phone Call That Changed Everything

On the morning of October 13, my husband called us from ICE custody. It was approximately 9:12 a.m. The call lasted about one minute.

He had been taken by ICE officers from our family home while leaving for work at SUNY Brockport. By the time he called, he had been transferred to the Buffalo Federal Detention Facility in Batavia, New York.

That brief phone call was the last time we heard directly from him. Since then, our family has lived with the anguish of not knowing when we will speak to him again, what is happening to him, or what comes next.

A Journalist Who Knows What Fear Feels Like

I Came to the US Seeking Safety. Nearly 10 Years Later, I’m Afraid Again

As a journalist in Venezuela during the Chávez and Maduro regimes, I understood the risks of reporting in an environment marked by restrictions on press freedom, intimidation, and threats against those who challenged those in power. I knew what it meant to fear them. I knew what it meant to question whether speaking out could put your safety in jeopardy.

I also knew what it was like to worry that reporting the truth could expose me to harassment or persecution. I understood that freedom of the press and freedom of speech were not abstract principles. They were freedoms that could come at a personal cost.

Nearly a Decade Waiting for an Answer: Waiting for Asylum

That fear was part of the reason my family sought protection in the United States. Not only that, but we also came to the "home of the brave" seeking the freedom and security to live, work, and speak without fear of persecution.

We did not enter this country unlawfully. On August 30, 2016, my family arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York with valid B-2 visitor visas. We were inspected and admitted into the United States, with authorization to remain through February 27, 2017. With visas expiring in 10 years.

In September 2016, while our authorized stay was still valid, our family filed an application for asylum and withholding of removal with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. I was the principal applicant; my husband and two sons were included as derivative family members.

We followed the legal process available to us. We submitted our application, remained in the United States while awaiting a decision, and after applying, received employment authorization documents and Social Security numbers. We have worked, contributed, and tried to build a life while trusting that our case would eventually be heard.

Nearly ten years later, we have not been scheduled for an asylum interview.

Our application remains pending. To our knowledge, no removal proceedings have been initiated against any member of our family, and no final order of removal has been issued. We have continued to maintain employment authorization under the applicable immigration rules.

The Human Cost of Starting Over

I struggle to explain what it feels like to come to a country seeking protection from fear and then find yourself afraid again. As a journalist, I once worried about being killed, threatened, or silenced for doing my job. Today, I worry about our family's future, and about what could happen to any of us while our asylum case remains unresolved.

I worry about ICE detention. I worry about the uncertainty. I worry about the possibility of losing the person who has been part of our family's daily life while we wait for answers we cannot seem to get.

And I think about how easily people forget what migration really means.

People usually do not leave their homes simply because they want to.

They do not leave their parents, children, siblings, friends, traditions, language, culture, and everything they have spent a lifetime building without a reason. They do not abandon familiar streets, the food that reminds them of home, the people who know their stories, or the comfort of belonging just because starting over somewhere else sounds appealing.

Migration is not an easy decision. Sometimes, it is the most painful decision a person or family will ever make.

It takes courage to leave. It takes resilience to begin again. It takes perseverance to learn new systems, adapt to a different culture, overcome language barriers, rebuild a career, and establish a sense of belonging in an unfamiliar place. It takes emotional strength to miss the people you love while trying to create a future for yourself and your children.

Migration takes courage. Starting overtakes resilience. Waiting takes patience. But no family should have to live indefinitely in uncertainty, wondering whether the protection they sought will ever bring them the peace they came here to find.

While your immigration case is pending, you work, pay your bills and taxes, contribute to your community, ... living with a question that never fully goes away: What will happen to us?

And when your immigration case remains unresolved for years, it takes another kind of strength to keep going. You work, pay your bills, contribute to your community, and try to plan your future, all while living with a question that never fully goes away: What will happen to us?

For our family, that question has followed us for nearly a decade.

Beyond the Immigration File

We are sincerely grateful that the United States gave us the opportunity to seek asylum. We have respected the process, pursued protection through the appropriate legal channels, and continued to trust that our application would receive fair consideration. We understand that immigration law is complex, and we are asking for our case to be considered through that process.

But gratitude should not mean that we cannot speak about our fear. And asking for protection should not mean that we must remain silent when our family is suffering.

Behind every immigration file is a human being. Behind every pending asylum application is a life that cannot be put on hold indefinitely. There are parents, children, careers, homes, relationships, and dreams. There are people who have already endured the pain of leaving everything familiar behind and are now trying to find stability in a new country.

Behind every pending asylum application is a life that cannot be put on hold indefinitely.

We are not numbers. We are not political talking points. We are a family.

I am a journalist who believes in freedom of the press, freedom of speech, human rights, and the dignity of every person. Those beliefs did not disappear when I left Venezuela. They are the very principles that made me seek a place where I could live and work without fear.

I still believe in the importance of the rule of law, due process, and a fair immigration system. I believe that people who seek asylum deserve to have their cases heard and their circumstances considered with care. And I believe that families should not have to endure prolonged uncertainty without answers about the people they love.

I did not leave Venezuela to spend the rest of my life afraid. But i cannot go back.

I came to the United States hoping to build a life where my family could be safe, where I could work without fearing persecution, and where our future would not be dictated by the threat of speaking the truth.

Today, I am afraid again. This time, I am afraid in the United States and one more time afraid for my family.