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How Cain Culto Forged a Path in the Fire

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How Cain Culto Forged a Path in the Fire

Going Up is a profile series featuring artists we love who are on the verge of breaking through.


Cain Culto is a paragon of artistic confidence: a vamping, twerking powerhouse with a sly, silver-grilled smile. He's a shredder on the violin whose lyrics, in English and Spanish, meld his political consciousness with his penchant for shaking ass. On his 2025 breakout hit with fellow rapper-violinist Sudan Archives, “KFC Santería (Remix),” Culto rapped about “American dollars fundin’ genocide” alongside “daddies in my DMs tryna pay for that,” and it did not sound incongruous at all. On his most recent single, “Cucuru,” he cranks up his suave voice to the pitch of a kewpie doll to sing lyrics like, “Let me be brash and abrasive/Speaking my truth with a brave tongue,” over a dollop of Afro-Colombian bullerengue, a philosophical statement from a fearless shapeshifter. He's a musical omnivore who stands on business in every song, conjuring spells against malignant forces with the self-assuredness of an artist who knows exactly who he is.

But for Andrew Estevan Padilla, it’s been a long path to develop his superheroic musical alter ego. Growing up in Kentucky and South Florida, he served as a youth pastor in an evangelical church, where he repressed his true self and devoted his music to God. Then his mind and body rebelled, and he embarked on a journey of embracing his queerness through his music. 

“In my earlier songs, I’m still very fragile and afraid and working through many things,” Padilla says on a video call from his home in Los Angeles. “And then you hear me build confidence, willing to stand alone and present more authentically. Maybe the mischievous aspect of me birthed from there, too—like, Well, I’m so misunderstood, let me just troll a little bit. All these things everyone’s telling me I’m not supposed to become feel so liberating and true.”

He was always a little rebellious, though, starting from his insistence in playing bluegrass instead of classical when he first took up the violin in fourth grade. The son of immigrants from Colombia (dad) and Nicaragua (mom), he spent his first several years in South Florida before moving to Lexington, Kentucky, with his family. “When I was young, my dad always had this dream of assimilation—his fantasy of this American dream,” Padilla says. “And there was something quaint and beautiful about moving to a small town in Kentucky.” The Padillas were among the first Latine families in a predominantly white neighborhood, and he remembers when “probably some idiot kid” once spraypainted “KKK” on their garage door. But he also learned about Southern politeness, and his parents placed him in a magnet art school and found him a fiddle instructor who taught him bluegrass technique.  

As an adolescent, Padilla and a friend began posting covers of hits by Karmin and Fun on YouTube. Looking back, he sees those early videos as planting the seeds of his maximalist production style, where he translated his love of big pop songs via GarageBand and Logic. He began writing his own music then, too—worship songs for his church, but also those for himself. He recalls one of the first songs he ever wrote, “When Pigs Fly,” in which he started to express his own teen rebellion. “It was about, like, ‘I’ll care about what you say when pigs fly,’” he says, chuckling. “So bad, but in my mind, I thought I was so cunty with that.” 

Padilla wasn’t sure he could be a professional musician, though. So one weekend at a men’s retreat he attended with his father, he decided to put it to God, praying that if anyone read a certain Bible verse to him during the trip, he would know to follow his musical dreams. At the retreat, he played a song he had written and all the men sobbed. “It was the first time I experienced my work affecting people in such an intense way,” he remembers. But by the last day, no one had said the fated Bible verse—until the preacher stopped mid-sermon and read it. “Obviously, I've gone through my own deconstruction [with the church],” Padilla says, “but for a long time in my early young-adult life, that experience of having something so concrete to hold onto in my emotional self gave me that delusional belief that this is my path.”

How Cain Culto Forged a Path in the Fire
Photo by @xingerxanger. Styling @sebastienhohl_. Make-up @vittorianaifymua.

Padilla’s self-belief as Cain Culto, mischievous gay superhero, is kinetic. On “Bimbaubau,” a summery party track, he analogizes the pop divas he loves to what sounds like extremely fine booty. Set to the melody of Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine’s 1985 single “Conga”—a South Florida classic that still resonates with Latines across the diaspora—and embellished with staccato violin stabs, he delivers his missive with the sensual self-possession of his many singles and last year’s Occulto 001 EP. “Tu culo me habla catalán com Rosalía/Nalgas como Kali Uchis hablan por telepatía,” he raps, talking about a remarkable ass that both speaks Catalan and is telepathic. And his ability to weave through genres—Colombian vallanato and bluegrass, cacophonous and sproingy rap, Brazilian samba and funk, big and bright pop, and more—has enabled him to sound natural alongside collaborators across the spectrum, including the rappers Xiuhtezcatl and Snow tha Product, singer Jarina de Marco, and fellow provocateurs like Peaches and Brooke Candy.

While Padilla’s talent was never in question, his cuntiness and Godliness were destined to converge and, eventually, explode. In 2021, he was working as a worship leader for various churches in South Florida and touring with a rising Christian band called Ecclesia. He was also closeted and, he says, “actively kind of preaching against being queer. I hold a lot of regret and shame—I was a young kid, I didn’t have it figured out. But at the same time, I was placed in certain positions of influence, and I impacted people with that messaging.”

The cognitive dissonance became too much, and it led to what he calls a “mental break” that was exacerbated by fasting, praying, and touring with his band. He eventually had to be hospitalized due to a “split from reality.”

“I came out in those moments, essentially, because I was in a mental state where I couldn't repress anything,” Padilla says. “All my church leaders and family thought I was possessed. I mean, it looked like it. There were these feral parts of my shadow that were just out.” With medication, he says, he was able to have a fuller perspective on what was transpiring in his life. “I just had this moment of reflection of being like, Whatever led me to this really rock-bottom place, something is not right in my life. I needed to practically confront that and be willing to change to find something that’s more sustainable and healthy.”

Padilla will release the Occulto 002 EP in July, and after that, a full-length record. He’s excited to further expand his vast musical range, showing off epic orchestral work that zooms past algorithmic limitations. And he sees his forthcoming music as a manifestation of everything he’s been through, as he further embodies the ferocious pop persona that is Cain Culto. 

“The split aspect of myself is just becoming more unified. Looking back at that traumatic moment where my mind literally did split, there was this severing, and everything had to be in two different boxes: My sexual self is here, my spiritual self is here. But it’s like, Actually, no, let’s just integrate everything,” he says. “Instead of finding myself, it feels like I’m telling people who I am.”

How Cain Culto Forged a Path in the Fire
Photo by @xingerxanger. Styling @sebastienhohl_. Make-up @vittorianaifymua.
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sarcozona
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He took his wife, a Trump fan, to the president’s hotel in Doral. Instead he was detained by ICE.

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Bryan José Rojas Galofre wanted to give his wife a lovely honeymoon to see the beach for the first time and perhaps a glimpse of President Donald Trump, whom she supports.

Their January 2025 road trip from Wisconsin to Miami, however, turned into a nightmare, according to the couple: Rojas, a Venezuelan immigrant whose wife and young children are U.S. citizens, was detained following a stop at a Trump hotel security checkpoint.

He spent more than three months in ICE custody in Florida. Rojas also faced accusations of gang affiliation; he says he feared being deported to El Salvador and lost his stable job and work permit. The family says they’ve lost their house and car, had to deplete Rojas’ 401(k) and are in debt.

“In the end, it was a bad decision,” Rojas, 34, said in an interview with Noticias Telemundo about wanting to take his wife, Socorro Zaragosa, to the Trump National Doral hotel. They wanted to see if they could catch a glimpse of the president, who was there inaugurating a Republican retreat on Jan. 27. Rojas said they had made reservations to stay at that hotel starting the following day.

Zaragosa, 22, a U.S. citizen, was raised in Wisconsin in a family that supports the current U.S. president.

“I’m his fan. I believe Trump is a good president,” she said. However, Zaragosa noted this political loyalty co-exists with the disappointment she feels over the months her husband spent in detention.

“What he is doing to migrants isn’t fair,” Zaragosa said of the president. “What happened to my family wasn’t fair.”

From honeymoon to detention

Rojas had arrived in the U.S. in September 2021, during the administration of President Joe Biden. He turned himself in to Border Patrol, telling them he was fleeing Venezuela, and was released while his asylum application was being processed.

Since then, Rojas had been working at a brake disc factory in Wisconsin, where he earned $29 per hour and was promoted to line supervisor.

He married Zaragosa in September 2024 and said he began the process of seeking to adjust his immigration status through family sponsorship just as they were setting off on their honeymoon.

Rojas and Zaragosa decided to head toward the hotel the afternoon of Jan. 27, 2025. As they approached, they encountered a security checkpoint required to access the premises, where agents from the Secret Service and the Doral police searched their vehicle.

The couple now has two children. The youngest one is 2 months old.Anagilmara Vílchez / Noticias Telemundo

Beneath one of their car’s seats, the agents discovered an air pistol, also known as an airsoft gun — a device that fires plastic pellets and is used for sports and recreational purposes. Zaragosa stated that she carried it for personal safety when driving alone, as it bears a resemblance to certain actual firearms. Authorities also found a metal marijuana grinder in the passenger-side glove compartment. The couple was arrested by the local police and charged with one count of possession of drug paraphernalia with intent to use. They pleaded not guilty, and the case remains open.

Rojas claims that when the agents noticed his tattoos — depicting a crown, a Chinese dragon and dollar signs — they separated him from his wife.

“They pulled me out of the car, they checked my tattoos, they started asking if I belonged to a gang, they took photos of me and put me under review to see if I was linked to terrorism,” Rojas said. “At that time, the news surrounding the Tren de Aragua gang was making major headlines.”

Rojas said his tattoos are personal matters and he doesn’t belong to any gangs.

Rojas’ attorney, Tahimi Rengifo, said that at the beginning of the Trump administration, there was a heavy focus on tattoos and their alleged connection to the Tren de Aragua gang, which she said was a “broad generalization — we are talking about young men who got tattoos without even knowing what they meant, and now they are facing serious consequences under this administration.”

In the days that followed, the Department of Homeland Security transferred Rojas to the Federal Detention Center — a jail in downtown Miami — while it verified whether he had ties to Venezuelan gangs. Rojas spent nearly three months on the 13th floor of that prison, where he feared being deported to El Salvador, since many Venezuelan detainees held alongside him were transferred to that country.

Rojas said he and his wife weren’t able to speak to each other for a full month after he was taken into custody.

While Rojas was in detention, Zaragosa was alone with their first child, who was only 6 months old at the time.

“I thought that was it — that my family was over. I thought I would wake up one day and find that I had lost him,” Zaragosa said, “that I would be left all alone with my son.”

Immigration Judge Scott G. Alexander, after reviewing all the evidence, granted Rojas bond on April 18, 2025 — a decision implying that he found Rojas posed neither a danger to the community nor a flight risk. He was released on a $15,000 bond and then transferred to the Broward Transitional Center in Pompano Beach while his family posted the bond and gathered additional documentation. He wasn’t released from detention until May 6, 2025.

“People operate under the assumption that once they win their hearing, they will be released immediately,” Rojas’ lawyer said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Bryan had no criminal record whatsoever; he hadn’t committed any crime. He had a pending legal proceeding that, under any previous administration, would not have been an issue,” Rengifo added. “But under this administration, all these small details — the tattoo, the grinder, the BB gun — combined to create a situation that escalated significantly.”

A legal limbo

Rojas’ release did not mark the end of his troubles. His work permit expired during his detention and was not renewed. Nor was he able to renew his driver’s license. The house they had purchased in Wisconsin is now up for sale, and they also had to sell their car. His 401(k) fund was depleted to pay for lawyers and his bail, Rojas said, adding that his debts now exceed $80,000.

“I am in an immigration limbo that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I don’t know how many people are in this situation — people who have posted bond, who have undergone vetting, who have no criminal record, who have been hardworking individuals since the moment they arrived, who have paid their taxes — and yet still have no right to a means of livelihood,” said Rojas.

His next immigration hearing is scheduled for 2028. Such a time frame is not exceptional: According to the Executive Office for Immigration Review, immigration courts currently have a backlog of over 3.38 million active cases, and asylum cases take, on average, more than four years to resolve.

Noticias Telemundo contacted DHS for comment on Rojas’ case. A spokesperson described him as a “criminal illegal alien from Venezuela who was arrested by local authorities January 27, 2025, after he attempted to enter Trump National in Doral, Florida, with an air soft gun. His criminal history includes charges for drug paraphernalia.”

“Under President Trump and Secretary [Markwayne] Mullin, criminal illegal aliens are not welcome in the U.S.” the spokesperson said.

Court documents tell a different version of Rojas’ case. The bond motion filed before the Pompano Beach immigration court — signed by attorney Johan Gutiérrez and submitted to the U.S. Department of Justice — states that Rojas “has never been convicted of any serious crime, crime involving moral turpitude, or disqualifying drug offense, either in the United States or in any other country in the world,” and was detained “solely because he entered the country irregularly.”

Rojas rejected the description DHS provided of him. “They want to keep smearing my name just to avoid granting me a work permit, thereby denying me my Social Security benefits. It is an outrage against my wife — who is an American citizen — and my two children,” he said.

Regarding the paraphernalia charge cited by DHS, Rojas’ attorney noted that it constitutes a civil infraction under Florida’s marijuana laws — an offense that federal courts have repeatedly determined does not amount to a controlled substance offense and does not trigger adverse immigration consequences.

“In federal terms, this paraphernalia charge is not a crime that renders him inadmissible or ineligible for immigration proceedings. It is not a crime that would make him ineligible for the immigration relief currently pending before the immigration court,” Rengifo said.

In April of this year, Rojas filed a complaint with the Department of Homeland Security’s Office for Civil Rights and Civil Liberties denouncing the conditions of his detention in Miami. In the complaint, Rojas alleged periods of confinement lasting entire days.

“It is a federal prison where they would put you on lockdown for four or five days at a time — unable to speak with your family, eating food slid under the door and deprived of basic necessities. I was terrified, because someone actually died inside there. There were fights,” Rojas alleged. “What I felt while imprisoned was an overwhelming sense of loneliness, anguish and despair.”

The Federal Bureau of Prisons declined to comment on the specifics of Rojas’ case but said that FDC Miami “has not placed detainees on lockdown” and that the facility instead implemented modified operations, which allow controlled movement for access to telephones, computers, recreation and showers. It added that from April to July 2025, an elevator failure led ICE detainees to be placed on a rotating tier schedule allowing “three hours of daily access to phones, showers, recreation and computers” but that legal calls and visits were not disrupted.

The Rojas family’s story unfolds against the backdrop of an administration that has taken steps to significantly restrict immigration to the U.S., including through asylum claims. In September, Deputy Secretary of State Christopher Landau told the United Nations General Assembly that the asylum system “has become a huge loophole in our migration laws.”

In November, then-Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem ratified a comprehensive asylum rule that raises evidentiary standards, expands the grounds for denial and restricts asylum protections.

Border czar Tom Homan has said that millions of deportations will be necessary and that while raids prioritize people with criminal records, “if you’re in the country illegally, you’re never off the table.”

Rojas’ mother, Bernarda Galofre, claims that during the months her son was detained, the family fell victim to a scam. In her desperate attempt to help her son, she contacted a purported attorney via social media who, she alleges, turned out to be an impostor. “He would answer all my messages and ask me for various things; I would send him the documents he requested — I even sent him about $2,000. But then, all of a sudden, I never heard from him or his associates again,” she said.

Galofre, who lives in Wisconsin, summed up the current situation: “All of this has affected my son in every conceivable way. As far as I’m concerned, he is still a prisoner, because he can’t do anything.”

Zaragosa said she had always dreamed of having a family of her own after enduring a difficult childhood. The couple now has a 2-month-old baby girl. The day after giving birth, Zaragosa had to go to work because, as she recounts, “we had nothing” for the baby.

“This has been very depressing for me,” she said.

Rojas is now a full-time father, and the couple remains haunted by the fear that he could be detained again. He does not go out alone, and when he does venture out, he never strays from his family.

Galofre suffers for her son, but also for her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren. She has not yet been able to meet the baby and regrets not being close by; she, too, has an ongoing immigration case and fears traveling. “The truth is, it hurts a lot,” she said.

Zaragosa said she learned about Trump from her grandfather, who supports him. But given what they have experienced recently, she now believes the administration’s immigration policies are racist. “We are all human beings. God created us Himself.”

Despite everything she has gone through, she says her feelings toward Trump haven’t changed: “I don’t think anything bad about the president. It wasn’t his fault; it was our fault.”

“I just wanted to see him and fulfill a dream,” she said, “but in trying to make that dream come true, my life was ruined. It destroyed my happiness.”

Rojas, for his part, has a message for the president.

“I would tell Mr. President — and the United States government — to show a little compassion toward the people who truly are doing things right in this country. I arrived with a desire to work; I arrived with a desire to do things the right way,” Rojas said.

An earlier version of this story was first published in Noticias Telemundo.

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sarcozona
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People’s belief systems are fascinating
Epiphyte City
acdha
20 hours ago
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This is conservatism in its purest form:

“I’m his fan. I believe Trump is a good president”

“What happened to my family wasn’t fair.”
Washington, DC
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Kristi Noem hired in strategic advisory role for B.C. mining company

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In March, Kristi Noem was reassigned from Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security after serving in the role for 13 months.

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sarcozona
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Gross
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dreadhead
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Vancouver Island, Canada
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A causal link between autoantibodies and neurological symptoms in long COVID: Cell

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sarcozona
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Epiphyte City
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https://www.thelancet.com/journals/laninf/article/PIIS1473-3099(26)00194-5/abstr...

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sarcozona
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Heck yeah rotavirus vaccine but also everyone deserves good sanitation and we should fucking pay for it everywhere
Epiphyte City
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Winnipeg-born Canadian released from U.S. immigration detention after 7 months in 'hellhole' | CBC News

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After nearly 250 days in U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention, Winnipeg-born Clayton Herman walked free on Monday. 

On the drive to his home in Ojai, Calif., from the Adelanto ICE Detention Centre after his release, Herman told CBC he’s most looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed and being able to eat fruits and vegetables. 

“I'm thinking the first three days is every healthiest food, all the green hippie slop imaginable … just so my body can heal from the damage I took from the vile, garbage excuse of what they call food in that place,” said Herman. 

Nutritious food, medical attention, and showers were hard to get at Adelanto, he said. The facility is facing a federal lawsuit for alleged "inhumane" conditions, including mould, insufficient food, lack of proper medical care and "rampant" illness.

A U.S. federal trial court judge ordered Herman's immediate release on Friday. Judge Michael Kaufman ruled that detaining him without giving him a chance to contest the reasons for his detention violated his right to due process. 

Herman said walking out of Adelanto ICE Detention Centre after being detained for over seven months felt surreal. (Robert Shepyer/Ojai Valley News)

The 54-year-old was detained in October at the Southern California processing centre following a routine check-in with ICE. This came after ICE forced Herman to wear a VeriWatch — a device that monitors his location — in May of last year.

Herman told the courts the VeriWatch device "was glitchy from the start”

It connects through cellular towers, but the reception in the Ojai area is poor and it often dropped connections. 

“(Herman) also received multiple troubleshooting calls from the contractor operating the VeriWatch device late at night,” said the judgment.

At an immigration check-in in October, ICE officers accused Herman of violating his VeriWatch supervision conditions. They arrested him and took him to Adelanto.

An officer stands outside the Adelanto ICE Processing Centre, Wednesday, May 27, 2026, in Adelanto, Calif. (Jill Connelly/The Associated Press)

The private, for-profit 1,940-bed facility is owned by the Geo Group, a U.S. company that, according to its latest annual report, received nearly half its revenue from ICE last year.

Herman says he crossed into the U.S. legally 20 years ago through a U.S. port of entry and then he overstayed his visa, which makes him an illegal immigrant.

Kaufman found the previous immigration judge “abused its discretion” in deeming Herman a flight risk based on allegations that he violated his supervision. Herman denies this, and the only evidence submitted wasn’t “clear and convincing,” Kaufman said in his decision.

The evidence accepted by the immigration judge was a U.S. Department of Homeland Security form that noted Herman had accrued 18 violations, “but it does not list the type or date of the violations, or provide any other information about how petitioner allegedly violated his conditions,” read the order. 

Herman repeatedly tried while detained to get information about the violations he was accused of, but was unsuccessful. After multiple rounds of immigration court hearings, he represented himself in filing a petition for a writ of habeas corpus — a legal mechanism that allows people who have been detained to challenge their imprisonment in court — in April 2026.

The court appointed him a lawyer and the case went to trial court. The government did eventually provide more info on the alleged violations in their answer to the habeas proceeding. 

“It thus appears that ICE had this information readily available and simply declined to produce it for petitioner’s bond hearing, forcing petitioner to speculate about what violations he might have committed and depriving him of a meaningful opportunity to contest the allegations against him,” the order read. 

Craig Durham, Herman’s lawyer, said many immigrants like Herman are unlawfully detained without due process. 

“This is someone who should never be in detention regardless of whether ultimately his immigration case is successful or not. He doesn't need to be housed like a common criminal in horrible conditions while that process is going on,” Durham said. 

'Glitchy' monitoring device blamed for alleged violations

The device and monitoring are provided by BI Electronic Monitoring and Supervision Services, a subsidiary of the Geo Group — the company that owns the Adelanto detention centre.

“That's just a horrible way to run an imprisonment system because there's incentives, obviously, to have more people detained,” Durham said.

Herman has volunteered to wear a GPS ankle monitor or have other release conditions instead of the VeriWatch. 

While the court left the Department of Homeland Security to decide on Herman’s release conditions, it ordered that a VeriWatch can’t be one of them.

“Given the evidence presented here, it is clear that the VeriWatch technology is not an appropriate condition of supervision for (Herman),” read the decision. 

While detained, Herman said he used his experience representing himself in immigration court to help other detainees contest their detention orders. He wants to continue this. 

“We have some people's habeas corpus applications and have gone through and some people are now free,” he said. 

Now that he’s won his release, he said he hopes his case sets a precedent others detained after alleged monitoring device issues can cite in their legal fights. 

Representing yourself from within a detention centre is challenging as there’s limited access to legal materials, he said. But he said he’s shared his phone number with friends still detained, so he can be a link to any information they need on the outside.

Herman teared up when describing seeing his cats — Poquito, left, and Butters, right — for the first time in seven months. (Robert Shepyer/Ojai Valley News)

On Monday, Herman returned to his home in Ojai and reunited with his two orange cats, Butters and Poquito. They are one of his last connections with his late partner, who died in 2021, he says.

He doesn’t know how long this homecoming will last. While his detention hearings are over, his immigration case is before the courts to decide whether he will ultimately be allowed to stay in the U.S. 

Herman still has to check in with ICE frequently, and worries he could be detained again. But he feels he has unfinished business in the U.S. — helping other detainees.

“I'm kind of committed to a battle and morally I have to see it to its end or however far my end will be in it,” he said.

"Witnessing an enduring injustice just burns fire in you."

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sarcozona
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