Venezuelan Man's Rose Tattoos Lead to Deportation and Salvadoran Prison Nightmare
In the bustling heart of Bogotá's Bolivar Square, Luis Muñoz Pinto sits motionless, his head buried in his hands as traumatic memories resurface. The 27-year-old Venezuelan was one of over 250 men deported from the United States to El Salvador's notorious Cecot terrorism mega-prison last March, accused by the Trump administration of belonging to the dangerous Tren de Aragua gang.
"I thought that my life had somehow ended," Muñoz Pinto recalled of his arrival at the brutal facility, where he faced immediate harsh treatment. His alleged crime? Two rose tattoos on his knees that immigration officials claimed were evidence of gang affiliation.
A Federal Court Ruling Offers Hope
Now living freely in Colombia, Muñoz Pinto is among more than 100 deportees whom a U.S. federal court has ruled must be allowed to return to American soil for proper due process. Judge James Boasberg determined they were denied this fundamental right during their deportation, despite pushback from the U.S. State Department.
"I would like to explain that these two tattoos, these two roses, are for my younger sisters," Muñoz Pinto told the Guardian in an exclusive interview. "They are twins, and have nothing to do with any gangs."
When detained in the U.S., an immigration officer saw the roses and immediately declared him a Tren de Aragua member. "I told him that I had been a college student," Muñoz Pinto recounted. "That I wanted to work and help my family. I even told him that he had tattoos too, and he responded 'but you're Venezuelan.'"
From Student Protester to Asylum Seeker
Muñoz Pinto was studying robotics engineering in Valencia, Venezuela's third-largest city, when he participated in the 2017 spring protests against President Nicolás Maduro's government. Fearing state persecution after some demonstrations turned deadly, he abandoned his studies and fled to Colombia in January 2024.
It was in Bogotá that he got the fateful tattoos in September 2021 and January 2022. "I made that decision because it was a way to keep my sisters close to me," he explained. "A pair of roses, just delicate and beautiful like them. They are my strength to this day."
Venezuelan tattoo artist Alirio Rodríguez, who created at least seven tattoos for Muñoz Pinto including the roses, expressed disbelief at their interpretation as gang symbols. "Those roses are not from the Tren de Aragua," Rodríguez insisted. "Look, even my wife has tattoos of roses on her hands, and that doesn't mean she's a member."
The Harrowing Journey to Detention
Muñoz Pinto has no criminal record in any country. After a difficult journey from Colombia to the U.S.-Mexico border, he crossed into America without authorization in June 2024, was expelled, then later received an asylum appointment. He told Biden administration officials he feared for his life if returned to Venezuela and signed a sworn statement denying gang affiliations.
Nevertheless, he was detained, stripped, had his tattoos photographed, and taken to the Otay Mesa detention center in San Diego. There, he realized his classification as a gang member when placed with inmates bearing tattoos of notorious gangs like Mara Salvatrucha and Barrio 18.
"I knew something bad was coming," he said of that terrifying realization.
Questionable Evidence and Expert Skepticism
The Trump administration had classified Tren de Aragua as a state-sponsored international terrorist organization, instructing immigration officials to consider tattoos among factors identifying Venezuelan migrants as gang members. Texas authorities listed roses among tattoos allegedly associated with the gang, while ICE claimed members favored specific basketball jerseys and footwear.
However, organized crime experts expressed serious doubts about these claims. Ronna Rísquez, who researched Tren de Aragua extensively, stated: "There are no distinctive features or tattoos among the members of the Tren de Aragua in the way that other gangs in Latin America do."
Professor Luis Fernando Trejos of Colombia's Universidad del Norte noted the dangerous stigmatization: "There is a stigmatization that has grown... that every man with tattoos in El Salvador is automatically a member of the Mara Salvatrucha. And it happened the same in the US when a list of tattoos were allegedly indicative that any Venezuelan could be a member of the Tren de Aragua."
The Brutal Reality of Cecot Prison
When the Trump administration flew Muñoz Pinto and 250 other Venezuelans to El Salvador last March, they defied a federal court order requiring the deportation flights to return to the U.S. Images of the men shackled and controlled by baton-wielding Salvadoran police circulated globally, confirming his family's worst fears.
"I remember that while the guards were shaving my head I thought that my life had somehow ended," Muñoz Pinto recalled. "I remember asking myself 'what had I done?' and contemplating that I would rather have the guards shoot me right there than continue the humiliation."
He described psychological torture at Cecot, where guards would jangle keys to prevent sleep. "Now when I hear any keys I stay quiet, like everything stops, and I think of those guards in El Salvador," he said, his voice trembling. "I start having so many flashbacks."
Beatings were frequent, and prisoners were forced to kneel for hours in pain. The Salvadoran government did not respond to allegations of torture and abuse at Cecot.
Unexpected Release and Uncertain Future
As suddenly as they arrived, the Venezuelans were released last July in a prisoner swap and returned to Venezuela. Muñoz Pinto eventually made his way back to Bogotá, where friends helped him find work delivering food for a local restaurant. He now works seven days a week in ten-hour shifts to support himself and send money to his sick parents and twin sisters in Venezuela.
Showing photographs of his family, he also revealed his first tattoo: a wolf etched between his stomach and chest. "I am like the lone wolf that has to leave to protect his family," he explained.
His voice broke as he described how he and fellow prisoners would sing Jerry Rivera's "Mi Libertad" (My Freedom) in Cecot, despite facing beatings for doing so. "It gave us some sort of freedom," he said, weeping softly as he recalled the anthem of confinement and redemption.
Muñoz Pinto dreams of resuming his engineering studies, perhaps in the U.S. or a safer Venezuela. But first, he must clear his name and overcome the psychological scars of an ordeal that began with two innocent rose tattoos meant to honor his sisters.
