Kilmar Abrego’s story was already one for the history books—a man wrongly deported to El Salvador earlier this year, hauled back to the U.S., only to find himself staring down yet another expulsion. Now, the U.S. government is considering sending him not to his homeland, but to Uganda, a country with which he has no connection at all.
On Monday morning, Abrego, 30, walked into an immigration office in Baltimore for what was supposed to be a routine check-in. Instead, he was detained once more and whisked away to a detention facility in Virginia. Hours later, a federal judge stepped in, blocking his immediate deportation and demanding answers about why the government appeared to be maneuvering outside the boundaries of due process.
The fight over Abrego has become a collision of law, politics, and raw human struggle. His supporters say he is being targeted as a symbol—punished not only for his immigration violations but also for daring to resist a system designed to break him. His legal team argues the government is using deportation as leverage: plead guilty to transporting undocumented migrants and go to Costa Rica, or maintain your innocence and face the possibility of being dumped in Uganda.
“This is not just about him—it’s about what kind of power the government claims it has over anyone caught in the immigration dragnet,” one of his attorneys warned.
Abrego himself has denied being tied to gangs, despite administration officials branding him a “monster.” He insists he is nothing more than a father and sheet metal worker trying to keep his family together in Maryland, where his wife and children—U.S. citizens—wait anxiously each time he disappears into government custody.
The stakes are not just legal—they are deeply personal. As Abrego told supporters, recalling family outings to parks and trampoline sessions with his kids: “Those moments will give me strength and hope to keep fighting.”
What happens next could set a precedent for how far U.S. authorities can push “third-country” deportations, where migrants are sent to nations that are neither their birthplace nor a place they’ve ever lived. Uganda remains a looming threat, though even the government admits such removals are rarely swift.
For now, Abrego sits inside a Virginia detention center, caught between the courtroom battles of Washington and the political theater of a White House determined to make an example out of him.
