Deportation protections end after two decades
After more than twenty years, deportation protections for over 72,000 Hondurans and about 4,000 Nicaraguans in the U.S. have ended. The Trump administration’s decision took effect the week of September 6, 2025, shutting the door on a program that let people live and work here legally while their home countries faced crisis. Employment Authorization Documents tied to Honduras were auto-extended only through September 8, 2025. After that, those without another legal status lose work authorization and face removal.
The move is part of a broader reset. The administration has already moved to wind down similar protections for immigrants from Haiti, Venezuela, Afghanistan, and Cameroon, a group that together numbers in the hundreds of thousands. For the Honduran and Nicaraguan communities, this is a sharp turn. Many arrived after Hurricane Mitch in 1998, built lives, paid taxes, bought homes, and raised U.S.-born children. They kept renewing a status that was always labeled temporary, but for a long time behaved like a steady bridge.
Here’s the core of it: Temporary Protected Status lets people from countries hit by war, disasters, or other extraordinary conditions live and work in the U.S. for limited periods. It doesn’t lead to a green card or citizenship. It simply pauses deportation and allows legal work, with DHS reviewing the country conditions every 6, 12, or 18 months to decide if the protections should continue. For Honduras, TPS has been in place since January 5, 1999, requiring continuous residence since December 30, 1998, and continuous physical presence since the designation date.
The policy didn’t shift quietly. A federal district court initially blocked DHS from ending TPS for Honduras, Nicaragua, and Nepal until mid-November, siding with plaintiffs who argued the plan was discriminatory and ignored on-the-ground realities. The Ninth Circuit then put that block on hold while the appeal moves forward, which gave DHS the green light to terminate now. San Francisco-based U.S. District Judge Trina Thompson previously wrote that the plaintiffs were likely to show the decisions were “preordained” and cited campaign remarks from then-candidate Trump about migrants “poisoning the blood” to illustrate alleged animus. With the stay in place, DHS proceeded.
Practically, the picture shifts fast. Without TPS, someone who doesn’t have another pathway—like a green card application, an approved family petition with eligibility to adjust, or an asylum case—loses legal permission to work. Employers must reverify I-9 forms and remove workers whose authorization has expired. People can still live here, but every traffic stop, every interaction with authorities, can become risky. ICE has discretion in how it prioritizes cases, but discretion is policy-dependent and can change without much notice.
What this means for families, employers, and the next legal steps
The human side lands hardest. Many TPS holders from Honduras and Nicaragua have lived here for more than two decades. Their kids are U.S. citizens who know no other country. Families are mixed-status, with some members secure and others suddenly exposed. Mortgage payments, car loans, college plans, and business payrolls don’t pause because a federal designation lapses.
The economic shock won’t be abstract. In states like Florida and Texas—as well as New York, New Jersey, and California—these communities are part of the backbone of construction, hospitality, home health care, childcare, landscaping, and small retail. Employers who have relied on long-tenured, legally authorized workers must now navigate sudden staffing gaps, higher turnover, and compliance checks. HR departments are scrambling to reverify documents and avoid penalties for employing unauthorized workers, a process that can disrupt operations even for businesses trying to do the right thing.
There’s also a ripple effect abroad. Remittances from the U.S. are a lifeline in Honduras and Nicaragua, where money sent home can equal a large slice of national GDP. World Bank estimates in recent years have placed remittances at roughly a quarter of Honduras’s economy and a substantial share of Nicaragua’s as well. When legal work ends, those dollars shrink, affecting not just relatives but also local businesses and social stability in those countries.
Why end TPS now? Supporters of the termination say the program was never meant to be permanent and the law requires DHS to reassess conditions strictly. If the original emergency has passed, their view is that the status should end. They argue that making temporary programs indefinite by default undermines the immigration system and invites more irregular migration. They also point to the need for Congress—not DHS—to create any long-term solution.
Opponents counter that the “temporary” label doesn’t match the realities on the ground. Honduras is still grappling with high levels of violence, climate shocks, and the aftermath of storms like Eta and Iota in 2020. Nicaragua is under a government that has cracked down on dissent, jailed opponents, and stripped citizenship from critics. They argue DHS should have considered these conditions more fully, and that uprooting families after two decades is not just disruptive—it’s avoidable.
The legal fight isn’t over, but the timeline is tight. The Ninth Circuit is reviewing whether DHS acted lawfully under the Administrative Procedure Act and whether the record shows discriminatory intent. A final ruling could take months. If the plaintiffs win, some protections could return or the agency might have to redo its analysis. If they lose, the termination stands. Either way, the current reality is that EADs tied to Honduran TPS expired after the brief auto-extension through September 8, 2025, and there’s no new blanket extension.
Is there any safety net left? The White House could, in theory, use a separate tool called Deferred Enforced Departure (DED) to pause removals, but that’s a presidential call and often time-limited. There’s no sign of a broad DED for these groups right now. Congress could also act, and bills giving long-settled TPS holders a path to permanent status have circulated before, but none has cleared both chambers and reached a president’s desk.
So what options do people have? A few, depending on personal history:
- Family-based immigration: Marriage to a U.S. citizen or certain other family ties can lead to a green card, but eligibility can get complex fast, especially for those who entered without inspection or left and reentered.
- Asylum and protection claims: If someone fears harm back home based on specific protected grounds, they can apply, but asylum law is strict and deadlines matter.
- Cancellation of removal: In immigration court, some long-term residents can ask a judge to let them stay if they show exceptional hardship to a U.S. citizen or LPR spouse, parent, or child. It’s a high bar and capped annually.
- Work-based routes and other visas: Rare, but possible for a subset with employer sponsorship, special skills, or qualifying circumstances.
Every path is case-specific, and none is guaranteed. That’s why community groups, legal clinics, and faith organizations are ramping up screenings to catch any eligible cases before people fall out of status entirely. Even then, resources are thin, wait times are long, and the window is closing for many.
Local governments are bracing, too. Schools anticipate attendance dips if families leave or move across state lines. City and county health systems expect changes as insured workers lose jobs and employer plans. Housing markets in immigrant-heavy neighborhoods could see more listings if families sell under pressure, while some landlords and lenders may face missed payments. It’s a domino effect that starts with a federal notice but lands in classrooms, clinics, and cul-de-sacs.
There’s a political layer that isn’t going away. Republicans will likely point to the statute’s text and the need to enforce immigration laws as written, warning against letting temporary programs morph into permanent ones through inertia. Democrats will argue that the law gives DHS room to weigh “extraordinary and temporary” conditions more broadly and that, after so long, Congress owes these families a legislative fix. The country has seen this movie before with DACA and other policy fights: the courts are a stopgap, not a solution.
For now, TPS for Honduras and Nicaragua is over. The people affected have three hard choices—find another legal pathway, leave on their own, or wait and risk arrest. Employers will face tough calls about staffing and compliance. Communities will absorb the shock. And the courts, again, will decide how much power an administration has to undo what years of renewals built.
The one thing everyone agrees on? The “temporary” in temporary status can last a very long time—until, suddenly, it doesn’t.
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