By AVA TURNQUEST

Tribune Digital Editor

aturnquest@tribunemedia.net

HANDCUFFED, shackled, and escorted up a plane’s steps, Deanna Richardson said an officer leaned close and said: “In Trump’s world there are only two genders. Put him back with the other men.”

Hours later, she was on Bahamian soil — a country she had not seen since she was two years old.

Three and a half weeks after that flight, Ms Richardson remains in limbo. With no Bahamian identification, no job, and nowhere permanent to live, the 47-year-old trans woman spends her days at a government-assisted shelter trying to make sense of a life uprooted.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” she said. “I worked seven days a week in San Diego. I had a home, a career, my dogs. Then, out of nowhere, I was grabbed off the street and shipped here. I’ve never felt so powerless.”

Ms Richardson migrated to the United States with her mother at the age of two but became a ward of the state when she was removed from her legal guardian after her mom's death due to abuse.

When she became an adult, she was able to obtain a driver's license and social security number with no barrier to employment. In 2017, during the first Trump administration, she was detained by the United States Immigration and Naturalisation Service (INS) but released after several attempts by officials to verify her Bahamian status were unsuccessful.

Ms Richardson went on to build an independent life and career in custodial management, transitioned to a woman, and legally changed her name.

She never suspected that one day she would be ambushed near her apartment by US immigration agents and shuttled through facilities in Texas and Florida before being flown to New Providence with nothing alongside 44 other deportees.

“They just jumped out the bushes and grabbed me up. I didn’t see a lawyer or a judge,” she said. “I kept asking to speak to my deportation officer — no one would tell me anything. They handcuffed and shackled me the whole way.”

"I had one phone call during that entire period; it was a few days after I'd been in detention and I was able to make one call to let my family know where I was, what had happened."

Ms Richardson's situation underscores the human toll of US immigration enforcement that has swept up long-time residents and returned them to countries with limited resources to receive them.

According to data from US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), arrests and detentions of Bahamian nationals have climbed steadily in recent years, peaking in fiscal year 2024 with 128 arrests, 163 detentions, and 92 removals.

The Tribune understands that deportation flights from the United States carrying Caribbean nationals arrive in New Providence roughly every other week, often with little notice. According to a high-ranking source, Bahamian officials are typically given passenger information only shortly before take-off, limiting their ability to verify identities or prepare support services.

Local authorities have formed an inter-agency task force — linking the Consulate in Washington DC, the Law Enforcement team in Miami, and local Immigration and Social Services units — to manage arrivals and assist families seeking information.

Upon arrival, Ms Richardson said she was processed by Immigration and INTERPOL before being taken to the Police Training College, where social workers placed her in temporary accommodation at a shelter.

Officials are said to be monitoring several “vulnerable” cases, including transgender deportees, and reviewing how best to support them.

However, Ms Richardson said she has struggled to obtain identification documents necessary for employment, banking, or housing.

“They keep sending me back and forth between offices,” she said. “I need an affidavit, but how can I possibly get one? I haven't lived here in more than 40 years. One day they tell you to come back, you come back and they still don’t know anything. There are others here who’ve been waiting six months and still don’t have documents.”

The lack of coordination between agencies, she said, has left deportees feeling abandoned.

“It’s just a merry-go-round,” she said. “The government agencies here, nobody talks to each other, so nobody knows what any of the other agencies are doing. It’s so discouraging. You feel like you have no help.”

Ms Richardson described her return as a “culture shock” and said she fears for her safety in public spaces.

“I told ICE about the risks for people like me here, and they didn’t care,” she said. “I almost got attacked because someone thought I was something I wasn’t. I don’t feel safe; I just want to get my ID, get a job, and live.”

“My mental health is horrible right now, but I’m a survivor,” she added. “I’ve survived everything life has thrown at me — but this, this I was never prepared for.”