Sent back to Venezuela from CECOT, Arturo Suarez survives two earthquakes

My baby daughter in my arms, my wife by my side, the ground trembling below us and everything around us shaking as a cloud of dust enveloped us, I thought we would not make it out of the building. 

After everything I have been through in the past few years, after crossing the continent under desperate conditions, after spending four months in hell and surviving three attempts on my own life, it looked as if that earthquake on the afternoon of June 24 was to be the end of me. 

But I am still standing. I have been given another chance to move on.

The past few years of my life have been marked by constant movement, change and suffering. In 2024, as my career as a musician started to gain momentum, I received an offer to sign with a U.S. record label. But my visa application was taking longer than expected, and I did not want to miss the opportunity, so I decided to make the journey on my own, crossing the Darién Gap on foot. 

I entered the United States in September that year, requesting asylum through CBP One, a mobile app migrants could use to request entry, and I stayed for a few months.

One day in February 2025, I was in Raleigh, North Carolina, filming a music video for a song featuring an artist from Chile. The concept revolved around a gathering of friends, so we had rented a house as the setting. My crew was there as well, along with several models hired for the shoot. Suddenly, we heard shouting from outside.

People in the street were warning us of police in the area. And next thing we knew, helicopters were rattling above us, armed officers were kicking down the front door. 

I caught glimpses of acronyms on their uniforms: ICE, FBI, DEA. It was a massive operation, as if they were hunting an international fugitive. Laser beams pierced the windows and moved across our bodies. The officers shouted and cursed as they detained everyone except the models.

They used some of my tattoos as a pretext to accuse me of being a member of Tren de Aragua, a gang the U.S. considers a terrorist organization. Some FBI officers who ran a background check and reviewed my material on YouTube and Instagram told me they knew I was not a criminal. They said I was simply “collateral damage.” 

But that did not save me from being taken to the Center for the Confinement of Terrorism, or CECOT, in El Salvador, where I was tortured every day. I was subjected to physical and psychological abuse aimed at dehumanizing me. 

While I was there, I tried to take my own life three times. I could not bear any more beatings. I could not bear any more insults. I tried to hang myself, but I couldn’t do it. Thank God, I wasn’t strong enough.

When I finally left that place, it felt like being reborn.

Coming back to Venezuela felt like a balm. I reconnected with my music and with my ability to create and express myself. My story gave me some public recognition, so I took the opportunity to book gigs and shows. I established myself as an artist and have been making a living from my music, my art, for a while now.

On Wednesday June 24, my family and I had a late breakfast, so we did not have lunch at our usual time. At 4 p.m., I was in the kitchen cooking chicken, while my wife was in the bedroom trying to get our baby to sleep. It was a normal day.

The first thing I felt was a small tremor. This is not common in Caracas, but we had spent some time in Chile, which experiences quakes frequently, so we did not get scared at first. But some minutes later, everything began to shake violently. 

The TV crashed to the floor, its screen shattering, and everything around me moving. The moment felt like an eternity, as if time had stopped. Objects were falling everywhere, there was nothing to hold on to, and I was being thrown about, unable to understand how to react.

Fear took over and forced us into action. It was a hot day, and I was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only shorts. My wife was in comfy clothes as well. We grabbed our phones and my ID from the table, I took our baby in my hands, and we stepped out into the hallway outside our apartment on the fifth floor. 

As soon as I opened the door, a thick cloud of dust engulfed us, blinding us. The building was creaking with an indescribable, dreadful noise I had never heard before. We held each other for a second, convinced there was nothing left to do, that the building was about to collapse on top of us.

Fortunately, we reacted quickly after that. I covered my baby daughter’s face, and we began running down the stairs. If the building was to come crashing down, we were determined to at least try to get out. 

Every floor was shrouded in a thick cloud of dust. We could only hear the creaking and the desperate cries of neighbors we could not see. We didn’t stop for a second, not until we reached the street. 

On the other side of the road, my wife sat on the ground. I handed her the baby and ran back inside to help others. Together with one of my neighbors, I managed to get an elderly lady from her apartment on the third floor down to the street. 

The quake itself must have lasted around 40 seconds, but it felt like an eternity. In my mind,  everything unfolded in slow motion. Back in the street, I looked up and saw dust rising from every building, not just mine. 

Those who had managed to get out looked stunned. Some stared blankly into space, others could not stop screaming. Some embraced their families, others ran in all directions, searching for loved ones or trying to get away. With every aftershock, our breathing stopped. Fear hung over us all like a giant mantle, taking hold of us.

We started checking whether anyone had been injured. My family and I were unharmed, except for some scratches and minor bruises. I saw people bleeding from head wounds after being hit by falling debris. Others were limping or clutching injured body parts. 

But the deepest damage, at least for those of us who were safe on the street, was psychological.

Many of us walked toward a public square in a kind of procession. Slowly, heads down and still shaken, we arrived and sat down, waiting without really knowing for what. We tried to get organized and decide what to do next. Some of my neighbors were crying.

Eventually, I returned to my apartment. I climbed the ruined stairs, covered in debris, up to my door, the only part of my home still recognizable. The walls had collapsed, and everything we owned was either smashed or broken. There was absolutely nothing that could be salvaged. 

It’s too soon to know what will happen next. The authorities have not yet assessed my building, so we do not know if we will be able to go back. I doubt we will. But I have an 18-month-old daughter to feed, and for her sake, as well as for my wife and myself, I will carry on.

Translated by Mariela Iñiguez