Trump’s “Christmas Gift”: Mass Deportations Secure America’s Holidays

Paul Riverbank, 12/21/2025Inside Trump’s holiday deportations: harsh policies, broken families, and America’s uncertain “safe streets.”

“ICE’s Christmas gift to Americans”—that’s how the Department of Homeland Security has been pitching its recent wave of deportations. “Silent nights and safer streets,” officials say, mixing holiday jingles with hardline crackdowns. The numbers are impossible to ignore. Since President Trump’s recent return to office, more than 2.5 million people have either been deported or opted to leave on their own. The official line little resembles the quiet anxiety these policies instill in everyday life.

The enforcement campaign’s reach extends far outside headlines. Recent arrests netted people from Chile, Colombia, Mexico, Honduras, and El Salvador. Offenses run the gamut—from major crimes like aggravated kidnapping and bank robbery to less clear-cut cases. “Violent criminal illegal aliens who break our laws have absolutely no business remaining in the United States,” a top DHS official announced at a press event, her words clipped and final. For law enforcement, this was victory; for families and communities, it meant empty chairs at dinner tables.

For every government announcement about “making America safe again,” there are complicated personal stories unfolding just out of the camera’s view. In a bid to appear more humane, DHS rolled out something called CBP Home, a kind of self-deportation plan. It’s advertised with surprisingly soft touches—a crooning Perry Como soundtrack and language options for users. Those who choose to use the app fill out a form, avoid detention, and are offered a $1,000 travel incentive. It’s pitched as a win-win: dignity for the migrant, budget savings for the government (the administration touts an 80 percent cost reduction—$3,500 per self-deportee, compared to $17,000 for a forced removal).

But the smooth online process masks quite a bit of risk and confusion. Many don’t fully grasp the long-term consequences. As immigration attorneys like Vanessa Dojaquez-Torres warn, future reentry is often blocked for three or ten years—or even for good. “No one should accept this without first obtaining good legal advice,” the American Immigration Lawyers Association cautioned, labeling the program’s “exit bonus” both misleading and unethical. There’s also the reality that even after signing up, people sometimes still end up detained or stranded, as one Venezuelan asylum-seeker found when her supposed flight home never materialized.

There’s more at stake than individual hardship. According to research from the Peterson Institute for International Economics, this mass exodus could shrink the U.S. workforce by as much as 7 percent in just four years, and national output could drop even further. Immigrants aren’t just workers; they’re also business owners, consumers, parents—the absence echoes in countless ways.

Yet for all the statistics and policy debates, the human consequences can appear most stark when they show up unannounced and raw. Consider Victor Acurio Suarez, whose case has come to embody much of what’s at stake. In Delaware, Victor—disabled, unable to care for himself, and diagnosed with both autism and aphasia—landed in detention after approaching an ICE agent in a Lowe’s parking lot. He used to rely on his brother; now, he waits in legal limbo as advocates worry what awaits him if he’s returned to Ecuador, where gangs have already targeted and brutalized his family.

Even Delaware’s governor has taken notice, urging release on grounds of Victor’s profound disability. There’s unease among lawyers who point out that, despite headlines suggesting mass arrests of criminals, most detainees have no convictions. ICE policy, meanwhile, has hardened, denying more requests for release and moving quickly to satisfy the political push for security.

For Homeland Security, these steps are business as usual—officials cite “American safety” as justification, and for many, the rhetoric rings true. But the price of safety, measured not in numbers but in torn-up lives, still goes largely unspoken. How many more Victors do we not know about? What gets lost—in possibility, in hope—when the debate settles on cost savings and “order”?

Across the country, as officials deliver soundbites and new banners, families calculate their own odds. The questions linger, sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken outright: Who will be next? Is packing a bag now better than waiting for a knock at the door? Inside America’s bus stations, behind the newest sign or inside the infamous CBP Home app, the answers remain deeply uncertain—felt more than understood.

At baggage claims and bus stations from Houston to Philadelphia, a new set of government posters greets travelers: “Safer Holidays, Safer Streets.” The phrase looks almost cheerful in its holiday colors, but the mood around it is something else entirely. Travelers sit on benches, waiting, glancing occasionally at stern-faced officers who stride through the crowds.“ICE’s Christmas gift to Americans”—that’s how the Department of Homeland Security has been pitching its recent wave of deportations. “Silent nights and safer streets,” officials say, mixing holiday jingles with hardline crackdowns. The numbers are impossible to ignore. Since President Trump’s recent return to office, more than 2.5 million people have either been deported or opted to leave on their own. The official line little resembles the quiet anxiety these policies instill in everyday life.The enforcement campaign’s reach extends far outside headlines. Recent arrests netted people from Chile, Colombia, Mexico, Honduras, and El Salvador. Offenses run the gamut—from major crimes like aggravated kidnapping and bank robbery to less clear-cut cases. “Violent criminal illegal aliens who break our laws have absolutely no business remaining in the United States,” a top DHS official announced at a press event, her words clipped and final. For law enforcement, this was victory; for families and communities, it meant empty chairs at dinner tables.For every government announcement about “making America safe again,” there are complicated personal stories unfolding just out of the camera’s view. In a bid to appear more humane, DHS rolled out something called CBP Home, a kind of self-deportation plan. It’s advertised with surprisingly soft touches—a crooning Perry Como soundtrack and language options for users. Those who choose to use the app fill out a form, avoid detention, and are offered a $1,000 travel incentive. It’s pitched as a win-win: dignity for the migrant, budget savings for the government (the administration touts an 80 percent cost reduction—$3,500 per self-deportee, compared to $17,000 for a forced removal).But the smooth online process masks quite a bit of risk and confusion. Many don’t fully grasp the long-term consequences. As immigration attorneys like Vanessa Dojaquez-Torres warn, future reentry is often blocked for three or ten years—or even for good. “No one should accept this without first obtaining good legal advice,” the American Immigration Lawyers Association cautioned, labeling the program’s “exit bonus” both misleading and unethical. There’s also the reality that even after signing up, people sometimes still end up detained or stranded, as one Venezuelan asylum-seeker found when her supposed flight home never materialized.There’s more at stake than individual hardship. According to research from the Peterson Institute for International Economics, this mass exodus could shrink the U.S. workforce by as much as 7 percent in just four years, and national output could drop even further. Immigrants aren’t just workers; they’re also business owners, consumers, parents—the absence echoes in countless ways.Yet for all the statistics and policy debates, the human consequences can appear most stark when they show up unannounced and raw. Consider Victor Acurio Suarez, whose case has come to embody much of what’s at stake. In Delaware, Victor—disabled, unable to care for himself, and diagnosed with both autism and aphasia—landed in detention after approaching an ICE agent in a Lowe’s parking lot. He used to rely on his brother; now, he waits in legal limbo as advocates worry what awaits him if he’s returned to Ecuador, where gangs have already targeted and brutalized his family.Even Delaware’s governor has taken notice, urging release on grounds of Victor’s profound disability. There’s unease among lawyers who point out that, despite headlines suggesting mass arrests of criminals, most detainees have no convictions. ICE policy, meanwhile, has hardened, denying more requests for release and moving quickly to satisfy the political push for security.For Homeland Security, these steps are business as usual—officials cite “American safety” as justification, and for many, the rhetoric rings true. But the price of safety, measured not in numbers but in torn-up lives, still goes largely unspoken. How many more Victors do we not know about? What gets lost—in possibility, in hope—when the debate settles on cost savings and “order”?Across the country, as officials deliver soundbites and new banners, families calculate their own odds. The questions linger, sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken outright: Who will be next? Is packing a bag now better than waiting for a knock at the door? Inside America’s bus stations, behind the newest sign or inside the infamous CBP Home app, the answers remain deeply uncertain—felt more than understood.