TL;DR

• Gay Venezuelan makeup artist Andry Hernández Romero was deported from the U.S. and disappeared into El Salvador’s notorious CECOT mega-prison.
• He endured months of abuse and survival tactics in a brutal, hyper-masculine environment.
• His story became a rallying cry for activists and lawmakers in the U.S. and abroad.
• Now back in Venezuela, he’s rebuilding his life while still facing risks under his country’s regime.
• His resilience and visibility shine as a symbol of LGBTQ defiance and hope.

From Brushes to Bars

Andry Hernández Romero should have been blending eyeshadow palettes, not fighting for survival in a mega-prison designed to break men. The 32-year-old gay Venezuelan makeup artist was yanked out of the U.S. under Trump’s revived Alien Enemies Act and dumped into El Salvador’s CECOT — the most brutal detention center in the Americas. His crime? Seeking asylum and daring to be both Venezuelan and gay.

Hernández Romero spent 125 days in a place where light never dimmed, mattresses didn’t exist, and guards promised prisoners they would “die there.” His tattoos of “mom” and “dad” with crowns were twisted into proof he belonged to a Venezuelan gang. Once processed into CECOT, guards shaved his head, mocked his sexuality, and told him he’d never leave. He became, in his own words, “disappeared.”

But even in a cage, he refused to let his identity break. “I want the world to know that being Venezuelan is not a crime,” he said. For LGBTQ people watching his ordeal, his courage has become a beacon — a reminder that queer lives are still treated as disposable in the eyes of governments eager to score political points.

Hell in El Salvador

Inside CECOT, Hernández Romero learned to survive on respect. The only openly gay man in his unit, he adapted to conversations about soccer and motorcycles, blending just enough while insisting on dignity. Abuse was real — he spoke of sexual assault by a guard and the constant threat of violence. But his faith and resilience carried him through.

The daily grind was mechanical: 4:30 a.m. roll calls, cold meals, scripture readings, and exercise. The fluorescent lights never went out, a psychological torture designed to strip away humanity. Guards repeated the same message: “You will die here.” Yet Andry clung to small acts of survival — talking, debating, praying. Even in the most masculine of cages, he insisted, “I belong to the LGBTQ community, to the diversity.”

A Movement on the Outside

While he was silenced inside, outside voices screamed his name. His face appeared on banners at Pride marches, protests outside the U.N., and posters across the U.S. Politicians demanded answers; activists turned his disappearance into a rallying cry. “If something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us,” he said after learning how many fought for him.

That fight mattered. When freedom finally came in July, he didn’t believe it at first. Guards had toyed with hope too many times. Only when Venezuelan officers boarded his bus and greeted him with “Buenos días, chamos” did he know he was safe. His return was emotional — not just for him, but for his parents, who had lived their own sentence of anguish while their son was locked away.

Glitter and Grit

Back in Venezuela, the battle isn’t over. His government still targets dissidents and LGBTQ people, leaving his future uncertain. But Hernández Romero refuses to let prison define him. “My only weapons are two brushes,” he declared. He’s slowly rebuilding his makeup kit, his career, and his life.

Andry’s story is more than survival — it’s a blueprint for resilience in a world that often treats queer migrants as disposable. For the LGBTQ community, his defiance shows that solidarity works, that voices raised in anger and love can bring someone back from hell. “Here you have a Venezuelan brother who loves you, too,” he said.

From the fluorescent glare of a Salvadoran cell to the glitter of his makeup brushes, Hernández Romero is proof: you can’t lock away queer resilience.