When the United States began shipping third-country deportees to Central America, the logistics were aggressive. The follow-through? Practically nonexistent. Hundreds of migrants arriving in Panama faced a vacuum of legal clarity, administrative chaos, and deep uncertainty about what tomorrow would bring.
Take the case of Artemis Ghasemzadeh. A 27-year-old Iranian Christian convert, she fled her home country where changing one's faith can carry the penalty of imprisonment or death. She arrived at the U.S. southern border hoping for the protection of American asylum law. Instead, she found herself swept up in a hardline immigration shift. Handcuffed and placed on a military aircraft, she was told she was heading to Texas. She woke up in Panama.
Her story isn't an isolated anomaly. It exposes the messy reality of diplomatic deals that swap financial incentives and political pressure for rapid border removals, leaving real people stranded in regulatory limbo.
The mechanics of third-country expulsions
The deportation flights carrying Iranian Christians, Afghan women fleeing the Taliban, and other vulnerable asylum seekers to Panama represent a sharp turn in U.S. border enforcement. Under agreements brokered via the State Department, thousands of individuals intercepted or detained at the U.S. border haven't been returned to their nations of origin. They've been shipped entirely elsewhere.
For Panama, accepting these flights became part of a complex diplomatic dance, closely following visits by top U.S. officials amid regional friction. Yet, Panamanian authorities were handed a sudden influx of foreign nationals without a clear roadmap.
Asylum seekers were initially held under guard in city hotels before being moved to remote processing locations like the San Vicente Migration Centre near the Darien Gap. Under local Panamanian law, holding individuals beyond 24 hours without a formal court order sits on shaky legal ground. Yet, hundreds remained stuck in primitive conditions, grappling with dirty tap water and meager provisions.
Where due process broke down
Immigration law is complicated. But the baseline tenets are supposed to be rigid. Under standard U.S. protocols, individuals fleeing persecution are entitled to a "credible fear" interview to determine if returning them exposes them to severe danger.
Legal advocates representing Ghasemzadeh and other Iranian deportees argued that these mandatory protections were bypassed entirely. They weren't given adequate access to counsel, nor were they given a meaningful opportunity to plead their case in a standard U.S. immigration court. Instead, expedited removal orders bypassed regular channels, transforming the asylum process into a logistical sleight-of-hand.
This enforcement strategy sparked immediate legislative pushback. Lawmakers like Representative Yassamin Ansari introduced measures such as the Artemis Act, aimed at prohibiting the expedited removal of individuals sent to nations with severe records of religious persecution or human rights violations.
The human cost of makeshift policy
When governments enact sweeping immigration tactics without a long-term playbook, human lives absorb the shock.
For months, deportees like Ghasemzadeh lived day-to-day in Central America, uncertain if they would be forced back to Iran or left permanently stateless. Legal challenges filed with the Inter-American Court of Human Rights highlighted the friction between rushed diplomatic agreements and international human rights obligations.
Fortunately, individual resilience and external advocacy sometimes punch holes in administrative walls. Months after her ordeal began, Ghasemzadeh's case caught the attention of private sponsors in Canada, ultimately paving the way for her to secure refugee asylum and relocate to British Columbia.
Most third-country deportees don't get that kind of lifeline. They remain caught in the friction of political enforcement models that prioritize swift departures over structural solutions. If the U.S. is going to outsource its immigration management to foreign soil, ignoring the human fallout afterward isn't just poor planning—it's an abdication of responsibility.
