Will the bold promise from President-elect Donald Trump to initiate the “largest deportation program in American history” truly succeed in keeping millions of immigrants out of the United States? Based on my research over the past five years focusing on deportees, it seems unlikely.
Here’s the reason: They’ll come back.
Take the case of one migrant I spoke with—after being deported, he found himself in a dangerous northern Mexican town. The moment he arrived at a bus station, he was confronted by a criminal gang demanding a “contraseña,” or password. Without it, he faced the threat of kidnapping. This left him with no choice but to borrow $1,500 from a friend to pay them off and escape, eventually finding his way back to the United States.
Stories like his illustrate the peril many deportees face in their home countries. It’s these dangers, alongside the pull of the United States as their true home, that push them to make hazardous journeys back.
The data on deportees isn’t exhaustive, but it indicates a significant number return post-deportation. Fiscal year 2020 saw the federal government marking 40% of deportations as “reinstatements of removal”—cases where deportees attempted to re-enter the U.S. after being expelled. Similarly, a 2019 study from the American Immigration Council highlighted that these cases generally constitute 40% of yearly deportations. Over the span from 2011 to 2020, about 1.3 million deportations involved people who had been previously deported.
The core of this issue lies in the limitations of deportation policies, which often fail to consider the deep personal ties and human stories involved. Many of those who see mass deportation as a fix overlook the deep-rooted connections, sense of belonging, family bonds, and determination driving people back to the nation they call home.
Despite being deported, many individuals I’ve interviewed have managed to return to the U.S., regardless of legal permission. Their stories shed light on a seldom-realized fact: deportation isn’t always the final chapter of migration; it’s often a temporary, ineffective interruption.
One man I spoke with was originally from Mexico but grew up in the U.S., served in the military, and experienced post-traumatic stress. He was deported over a minor cannabis possession charge to a country he hardly remembered. After over a decade in exile, in 2021, he made his way back to the only land he calls home—the United States.
“You can travel the world,” he shared, “but eventually, your heart and spirit will call you home.”
Another individual, a U.S.-raised military veteran also deported over a marijuana charge, felt a loss of identity. Within a month, he risked everything to return.
“I don’t need a paper to tell me I’m an American,” he asserted.
These tales reveal a critical flaw in mass deportation strategies. Unlike the migration patterns of previous decades—where migrants would move between the U.S. and Mexico in response to job markets—today’s movement is propelled by government action and strong, undeniable ties. Forced removal often leads to inevitable returns, driven by connections that no enforcement tactics can break.
Smugglers, known as “coyotes,” have become integral to what anthropologist Jason De León describes as a “border-security-industrial complex.” If these businesses were on the stock market, their shares would be climbing due to heightened demand. Meanwhile, border enforcement policies push migrants into dangerous terrains, putting them at risk of dehydration, hypothermia, and death in unforgiving deserts.
For deportees, returning isn’t just about determination—it’s about survival. Some manage to make it back, but as the saying goes, “Tanto va el cántaro al agua hasta que se quiebra”: The pitcher goes to the well until it finally breaks. Deportation policies force people to take greater risks to return to their true homes, with each attempt potentially being their last.
If we persist with punitive measures, deportation could become the defining challenge of our times. What could follow when mass deportations fail? Might we witness a repeat of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s executive order for the forced relocation and incarceration of Japanese Americans, with new “relocation centers”?
Under a distinctly different executive order from President Biden in 2021, the departments of Homeland Security and Veterans Affairs have prioritized bringing back deported U.S. military members and their families. Similarly, DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) acknowledged the long-standing ties of residents, aiming to reintegrate them into the American communities they know and love.
Embracing such policies aligns with American values of justice and inclusivity, by acknowledging those who, in essence, already belong. In contrast, mass deportation would betray these ideals, endanger more lives, and most likely fail to attain its stated goals.
Saúl Ramírez is a fellow at Harvard Law School and a doctoral candidate in sociology at Harvard.
