Doral’s Venezuelan dream in jeopardy as migrant protections fade
Pranjal Chandra | Apr 07, 2025, 20:10 IST
( Image credit : AP )
In Doral, Florida, a vibrant Venezuelan community faces uncertainty as the Trump administration rescinds immigration protections like TPS and humanitarian parole. These actions threaten the livelihoods of Venezuelan immigrants and the local economy they've significantly contributed to. While a judge temporarily blocked the TPS rollback, the future remains precarious for many, leaving the community in deep anxiety.
In the heart of Doral, Florida where the scent of arepas drifts from bustling cafes and storefronts proudly display the Venezuelan tricolor the American dream is on shaky ground.
Nicknamed “Doralzuela” for its large and vibrant Venezuelan community, the city has long been a sanctuary for those fleeing the political and economic collapse back home. Now, fear and uncertainty are replacing the optimism that once fueled its immigrant success stories.
Since early February, the Trump administration has rolled back two major immigration programs that allowed over 700,000 Venezuelans to live and work legally in the U.S. Temporary Protected Status (TPS) and a humanitarian parole program. These moves threaten not just families and individuals, but also the local economy built around their labor and entrepreneurship.
Wilmer Escaray, a Venezuelan-American entrepreneur who arrived in Miami in 2007, now owns a dozen businesses under the name Sabor Venezolano. Nearly all of his 150 employees are Venezuelan — over 100 of them protected by TPS.
“Without these people, the businesses that bring life to this community could collapse,” Escaray says. “They are cooks, cleaners, clerks — the kind of work that powers small cities like ours.”
TPS, originally created in 1990, provides temporary legal status and work authorization to migrants from countries deemed unsafe due to war or disaster. However, it offers no path to citizenship and its future is politically fragile. For many in Doral, the recent cancellations mean they could lose their legal protections within weeks.
John, a construction company co-owner who came to the U.S. nine years ago, lives with his wife (also on TPS) and their five-year-old daughter, a U.S. citizen by birth. Fearing deportation, he asked to be identified only by his first name.
“We pay taxes, we create jobs. We’re not criminals,” he said. “And yet, it feels like the government is erasing us.”
Like thousands of others in Doral, John's family came seeking stability. Many Venezuelans initially arrived in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when Hugo Chávez’s socialist regime drove out business owners and political dissidents. Over time, they built restaurants, real estate offices, clinics, salons, and cleaning services infusing the local economy with investment and skills.
After the COVID-19 pandemic and Venezuela’s deepening crisis, a newer wave of lower-income migrants arrived, often through treacherous jungle routes or humanitarian parole flights, seeking refuge and opportunity. Today, they form the backbone of service industries in cities like Doral.
And yet, for all their contributions, their future now hangs on legal battles and policy decisions. A federal judge temporarily blocked the TPS rollback on March 31, sparing about 350,000 Venezuelans for now. But unless courts intervene further, the humanitarian parole program covering over 500,000 migrants from Venezuela, Cuba, Haiti, and Nicaragua is set to expire on April 24.
Despite the looming threat, the political response has been muted. Only three Republican lawmakers Florida Representatives Mario Díaz-Balart, Carlos Gimenez, and Maria Elvira Salazar have publicly urged the administration to reconsider mass deportations and review cases individually.
Even Doral’s mayor, Christi Fraga, has weighed in, writing to President Trump: “These families do not want handouts. They want an opportunity to continue working, building, and investing in the United States.”
Doral has long benefitted from its Venezuelan presence. Spanish is spoken more than English in many areas, and economic data shows the community contributes significantly to local growth. Real estate, restaurants, and retail all rely on this labor force and consumer base.
But with legal protections vanishing and no path to permanent residency, even long-time residents feel they’re standing on unstable ground.
Frank Carreño, president of the Venezuelan American Chamber of Commerce and an 18-year Doral resident, sums up the mood: “There’s a deep anxiety now. No one wants to go back to a country in ruin. But we’re not sure what staying will look like anymore.”
For now, Doral waits and hopes that the dream it helped build won’t be dismantled by politics.
Nicknamed “Doralzuela” for its large and vibrant Venezuelan community, the city has long been a sanctuary for those fleeing the political and economic collapse back home. Now, fear and uncertainty are replacing the optimism that once fueled its immigrant success stories.
Since early February, the Trump administration has rolled back two major immigration programs that allowed over 700,000 Venezuelans to live and work legally in the U.S. Temporary Protected Status (TPS) and a humanitarian parole program. These moves threaten not just families and individuals, but also the local economy built around their labor and entrepreneurship.
Wilmer Escaray, a Venezuelan-American entrepreneur who arrived in Miami in 2007, now owns a dozen businesses under the name Sabor Venezolano. Nearly all of his 150 employees are Venezuelan — over 100 of them protected by TPS.
“Without these people, the businesses that bring life to this community could collapse,” Escaray says. “They are cooks, cleaners, clerks — the kind of work that powers small cities like ours.”
TPS, originally created in 1990, provides temporary legal status and work authorization to migrants from countries deemed unsafe due to war or disaster. However, it offers no path to citizenship and its future is politically fragile. For many in Doral, the recent cancellations mean they could lose their legal protections within weeks.
John, a construction company co-owner who came to the U.S. nine years ago, lives with his wife (also on TPS) and their five-year-old daughter, a U.S. citizen by birth. Fearing deportation, he asked to be identified only by his first name.
“We pay taxes, we create jobs. We’re not criminals,” he said. “And yet, it feels like the government is erasing us.”
Like thousands of others in Doral, John's family came seeking stability. Many Venezuelans initially arrived in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when Hugo Chávez’s socialist regime drove out business owners and political dissidents. Over time, they built restaurants, real estate offices, clinics, salons, and cleaning services infusing the local economy with investment and skills.
After the COVID-19 pandemic and Venezuela’s deepening crisis, a newer wave of lower-income migrants arrived, often through treacherous jungle routes or humanitarian parole flights, seeking refuge and opportunity. Today, they form the backbone of service industries in cities like Doral.
And yet, for all their contributions, their future now hangs on legal battles and policy decisions. A federal judge temporarily blocked the TPS rollback on March 31, sparing about 350,000 Venezuelans for now. But unless courts intervene further, the humanitarian parole program covering over 500,000 migrants from Venezuela, Cuba, Haiti, and Nicaragua is set to expire on April 24.
Despite the looming threat, the political response has been muted. Only three Republican lawmakers Florida Representatives Mario Díaz-Balart, Carlos Gimenez, and Maria Elvira Salazar have publicly urged the administration to reconsider mass deportations and review cases individually.
Even Doral’s mayor, Christi Fraga, has weighed in, writing to President Trump: “These families do not want handouts. They want an opportunity to continue working, building, and investing in the United States.”
Doral has long benefitted from its Venezuelan presence. Spanish is spoken more than English in many areas, and economic data shows the community contributes significantly to local growth. Real estate, restaurants, and retail all rely on this labor force and consumer base.
But with legal protections vanishing and no path to permanent residency, even long-time residents feel they’re standing on unstable ground.
Frank Carreño, president of the Venezuelan American Chamber of Commerce and an 18-year Doral resident, sums up the mood: “There’s a deep anxiety now. No one wants to go back to a country in ruin. But we’re not sure what staying will look like anymore.”
For now, Doral waits and hopes that the dream it helped build won’t be dismantled by politics.