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		Miami’s ‘Little Venezuela’ fears Trump's moves against migration
		[April 07, 2025]  
		By GISELA SALOMON 
		DORAL, Fla. (AP) — Wilmer Escaray left Venezuela in 2007 and enrolled at 
		Miami Dade College, opening his first restaurant six years later.
 Today he has a dozen businesses that hire Venezuelan migrants like he 
		once was, workers who are now terrified by what could be the end of 
		their legal shield from deportation.
 
 Since the start of February the Trump administration has ended two 
		federal programs that together allowed more 700,000 Venezuelans to live 
		and work legally in the U.S. along with hundreds of thousands of Cubans, 
		Haitians and Nicaraguans.
 
 In the largest Venezuelan community in the United States, people dread 
		what could face them if lawsuits that aim to stop the government fail. 
		It's all anyone discusses in “Little Venezuela” or “Doralzuela,” a city 
		of 80,000 people surrounded by Miami sprawl, freeways and the Florida 
		Everglades.
 
 Deportation fears in Doralzuela
 
 People who lose their protections would have to remain illegally at the 
		risk of being deported or return home, an unlikely route given the 
		political and economic turmoil in Venezuela.
 
 “It’s really quite unfortunate to lose that human capital because there 
		are people who do work here that other people won’t do,” Escaray, 37, 
		said at one of his “Sabor Venezolano” restaurants.
 
 Spanish is more common than English in shopping centers along Doral's 
		wide avenues, and Venezuelans feel like they're back home but with more 
		security and comfort.
 
 A sweet scent wafts from round, flat cornmeal arepas sold at many 
		establishments. Stores at gas stations sell flour and white cheese used 
		to make arepas and T-shirts and hats with the yellow, blue and red 
		stripes of the Venezuelan flag.
 
		 
		New lives at risk
 John came from Venezuela nine years ago and bought a growing 
		construction company with a partner. He and his wife are on Temporary 
		Protected Status, or TPS, which Congress created in 1990 for people in 
		the United States whose homelands are considered unsafe to return due to 
		natural disaster or civil strife. Beneficiaries can live and work while 
		it lasts but TPS carries no path to citizenship.
 
 Born in the U.S., their 5-year-old daughter is a citizen. John, 37, 
		asked to be identified by first name only for fear of being deported.
 
 His wife helps with administration at their construction business while 
		working as a real-estate broker. The couple told their daughter that 
		they may have to leave the United States. Venezuela is not an option.
 
 “It hurts us that the government is turning its back on us,” John said. 
		“We aren’t people who came to commit crimes; we came to work, to build.”
 
 A federal judge ordered on March 31 that temporary protected statuswould 
		stand until a legal challenge's next stage in court and at least 350,000 
		Venezuelans were temporarily spared becoming illegal. Escaray, the owner 
		of the restaurants, said nearly all of his 150 employees are Venezuelan 
		and more than 100 are on TPS.
 
		The federal immigration program that allowed more than 500,000 Cubans, 
		Venezuelans, Haitians and Nicaraguans to work and live legally in the 
		U.S. — humanitarian parole — expires April 24 absent court intervention. 
		
		 
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            U.S. citizens who immigrated from Venezuela between 16 and 30 years 
			ago play dominos outside El Arepazo, a restaurant that is a hub of 
			the largest Venezuelan community in the U.S., in Doral, Fla., 
			Wednesday, April 2, 2025. Many of the friends, including Cesar Mena, 
			at right, voted for President Donald Trump and continue to support 
			him. "I have family and friends on TPS [Temporary Protected Status] 
			and I feel bad for them. But it's a temporary situation, and you 
			need to resolve the problem." (AP Photo/Rebecca Blackwell) 
            
			 
            Politics of migration
 Venezuelans were one of the main beneficiaries when former President 
			Joe Biden sharply expanded TPS and other temporary protections. 
			Trump tried to end them in his first term and now his second.
 
 The end of the temporary protections has generated little political 
			reaction among Republicans except for three Cuban-American 
			representatives from Florida who called for avoiding the 
			deportations of affected Venezuelans. Mario Díaz Ballart, Carlos 
			Gimenez and Maria Elvira Salazar have urged the government to spare 
			Venezuelans without criminal records from deportation and review TPS 
			beneficiaries on a case-by-case basis.
 
 The mayor of Doral, home to a Trump golf club since 2012, wrote a 
			letter to the president asking him to find a legal pathway for 
			Venezuelans who haven’t committed crimes.
 
 “These families do not want handouts,” said Christi Fraga, a 
			daughter of Cuban exiles. “They want an opportunity to continue 
			working, building, and investing in the United States.”
 
 A country's elite, followed by the working class
 
 About 8 million people have fled Venezuela since 2014, settling 
			first in neighboring countries in Latin America and the Caribbean. 
			After the COVID-19 pandemic, they increasingly set their sights on 
			the United States, walking through the notorious jungle in Colombia 
			and Panama or flying to the United States on humanitarian parole 
			with a financial sponsor.
 
            
			 
			In Doral, upper-middle-class professionals and entrepreneurs came to 
			invest in property and businesses when socialist Hugo Chávez won the 
			presidency in the late 1990s. They were followed by political 
			opponents and entrepreneurs who set up small businesses. In recent 
			years, more lower-income Venezuelans have come for work in service 
			industries.
 They are doctors, lawyers, beauticians, construction workers and 
			house cleaners. Some are naturalized U.S. citizens or live in the 
			country illegally with U.S.-born children. Others overstay tourist 
			visas, seek asylum or have some form of temporary status.
 
 Thousands went to Doral as Miami International Airport facilitated 
			decades of growth.
 
 Frank Carreño, president of the Venezuelan American Chamber of 
			Commerce and a Doral resident for 18 years, said there is an air of 
			uncertainty.
 
 “What is going to happen? People don't want to return or can't 
			return to Venezuela,” he said.
 
			
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