It started with a routine check-in at an immigration office—something she’d done before, something she didn’t expect would change everything. But within days, Ma Yang, a mother of five who had lived in the United States since infancy, found herself in an unfamiliar country, surrounded by military guards, with no way home.
Her story is more than just another immigration case. It’s a collision of identity, history, and justice that raises difficult questions: What happens when the only home you’ve ever known no longer claims you? How far should punishment go for a crime already served? And what does it mean to be “American” when paperwork says otherwise?
What unfolded next is a deeply human story—one that highlights the cracks in a system that’s supposed to offer due process and dignity. And it’s not just about Ma Yang. It’s about who gets to belong—and who decides.
Table of Contents
Who Is Ma Yang?
Ma Yang’s American story began when she was just eight months old. Born in a refugee camp in Thailand to Hmong parents fleeing the aftermath of the Vietnam War, she arrived in Milwaukee as part of a wave of Southeast Asian families resettled in the United States during the 1980s. It was the only home she ever knew. She grew up speaking English, went to American schools, and built a life rooted firmly in the Midwest.
As an adult, she worked as a nail technician and receptionist to support her family. Life wasn’t easy, but it was familiar. She lived with her longtime partner, Michael Bub, a U.S. citizen living with disability, and cared for their five children, who range in age from six to 22. She even became a grandmother recently. She also looked after her mother, who had suffered two strokes and needed daily care.
Legally, Ma Yang held permanent resident status for most of her life. But what she didn’t know—and what would come to define her future—is just how fragile that status could be when it collided with the criminal justice system.
The Conviction That Changed Everything
Image Credits: Website @TMJ4
In 2020, amid the uncertainty of the pandemic, Ma Yang’s life took a dramatic turn. She was one of 26 people indicted in a federal case tied to a marijuana trafficking operation. Prosecutors alleged she had helped count and package large sums of cash that were mailed to suppliers in California. The evidence included bags of money taped between magazine pages—details that painted a picture the courts couldn’t ignore.
Ma Yang took a plea deal, believing—based on her lawyer’s advice—that doing so would not affect her immigration status. That turned out to be disastrously incorrect. She was sentenced to two and a half years in federal prison and served her time. But while she paid her debt to the justice system, another system was quietly preparing to erase the life she knew.
Her conviction triggered an automatic revocation of her green card. After her release, she wasn’t sent home to her family. Instead, she was transferred to an ICE detention facility. There, she was advised to sign a document agreeing to a deportation order in exchange for release—another decision made under pressure and misinformation. At the time, both she and her attorney believed that deportation to Laos wasn’t a real possibility. After all, the country had long been considered “uncooperative,” with no record of accepting deportees in recent years. That assumption proved fatally flawed.
From Detention to Deportation
For a while, life seemed to be stabilizing again. Ma Yang had reunited with her family and even purchased a home in South Milwaukee with her partner. She continued her regular check-ins with ICE, believing that her case, like thousands of others involving deportation orders to Laos, would remain in limbo. But then, unexpectedly, she received a call—nine months ahead of schedule—asking her to report for a check-in. She showed up, thinking it was routine. Instead, she was detained on the spot.
From there, the process escalated rapidly and without warning. She was transported to a jail in Brazil, Indiana, where officials told her she might be stuck for months due to Laos’ long-standing refusal to accept deportees. That hope quickly vanished. Within weeks, she was transferred to a holding facility in Chicago and then put on a commercial flight that would take her through Atlanta, South Korea, and finally, to Vientiane—the capital of a country she had never set foot in.
Upon arrival, she says she was interrogated by military officials and held in isolation in a rooming house for five days, unable to contact her family or access any support. Her identification and legal documents were confiscated. A guard eventually told her she could leave if she wanted—but how does someone start a life in a foreign country with no language, no contacts, no money, and no official papers?
The reality hit hard: her deportation wasn’t a threat on paper anymore. It was real. And she was completely alone.
Life in Limbo in Laos
Ma Yang now finds herself in a country that feels more like exile than refuge. Stationed in a guarded rooming house near Vientiane, she’s surrounded by military officers, unable to speak the language, and stripped of all identification. For five days after arriving, she wasn’t even allowed to contact her family—her partner, her children, her mother—all of whom had no idea what had happened to her.
When she was finally permitted to leave the compound briefly, it wasn’t to find freedom—it was to buy a cellphone and withdraw cash. An official told her she could leave the facility if she chose to, but that offered little comfort. “Leave and go where?” she asked. Without documents, a job, or community support, her options are virtually nonexistent. “How do I rent, or buy, or anything, with no papers? I’m a nobody right now.”
Making matters worse, Ma suffers from diabetes and high blood pressure. Her supply of medications is dwindling fast, and she’s already been without insulin for days. A recent visit to a military hospital offered some care, but her long-term health remains uncertain in a country where she has no legal standing and no access to consistent medical resources.
She is the only deportee in the compound, and every day is marked by isolation and fear. The future is a blank page, and she’s been handed a pen with no ink.
The Human Cost
While Ma Yang struggles with survival in a country she never knew, the ripple effects of her deportation are being deeply felt back home in Wisconsin. Her longtime partner, Michael Bub—a U.S. citizen living with disability after multiple brain surgeries—is now a single parent overnight. He’s trying to manage the household while raising five children, one of whom is just six years old. Their oldest daughter, only 22, has recently become a mother herself. The emotional toll on the family is growing by the day.
Then there’s Ma’s elderly mother, who has suffered two strokes and relied on Ma for daily care. In a phone call after her deportation, her mother simply said, “I miss you. Nobody takes care of me like you do.” For Ma, that conversation underscored the helplessness of her situation. “I can’t even take care of myself,” she replied. “Everything is unknown.”
There’s also a psychological cost that numbers can’t quantify: the betrayal felt by the Hmong community. Many Hmong Americans, including Ma’s family, trace their presence in the U.S. to their support of American forces during the Vietnam War and the “Secret War” in Laos. Her deportation feels not just like personal punishment—but a systemic erasure of that legacy. “How do you send us back when we fought for you guys?” she asked. “How is this OK?”
The pain isn’t isolated. It spreads—to her children, her partner, her mother, and a broader community that sees itself reflected in her story. And that’s the true cost: broken families, fractured trust, and lives left hanging in uncertainty.
Policy, Precedent & Refugee History
Ma Yang’s case didn’t happen in isolation—it’s the result of shifting political winds and deep-rooted legal loopholes. Her deportation comes during a time when U.S. immigration policy has been increasingly focused on speed and volume, rather than nuance and context. Under the Trump administration, efforts intensified to deport individuals with final removal orders, even to countries like Laos, which had historically resisted such repatriations.
Laos has long been categorized as “uncooperative” by U.S. immigration authorities, with no deportees sent there in the previous fiscal year and nearly 5,000 Laotian nationals with final removal orders remaining in the country. That’s what made Ma’s deportation so jarring—it shattered the unspoken understanding that Laos simply wouldn’t take people back. Without a formal agreement, many believed such deportations were all but symbolic. But when Ma boarded her flight in Chicago, that belief dissolved.
What makes this even more complicated is the refugee history of the Hmong people. Recruited by the CIA to assist U.S. forces during the Vietnam War, the Hmong faced persecution in their home countries after the conflict ended. Thousands were resettled in the United States with promises of safety and opportunity. Deporting Hmong Americans like Ma Yang back to Southeast Asia is more than a legal action—it’s a historical reversal that undermines the sacrifices made by their families in service to U.S. interests.
Immigration lawyers and advocates worry that her case may set a precedent. If one Hmong American can be deported to Laos, others may follow. And with proposed changes to immigration laws—including efforts to revive archaic wartime statutes like the Alien Enemies Act—cases like Ma’s could become the rule, not the exception.
Legal Barriers & Future Hurdles
Even as Ma Yang holds on to hope from thousands of miles away, the legal road ahead is daunting. According to immigration experts, reversing a deportation—especially one that has already been carried out—is one of the most difficult legal feats in the U.S. immigration system. And in Ma’s case, the clock is already working against her.
To even begin the process of reentry, Ma would have to apply for what’s known as an I-212 waiver of inadmissibility—a petition to request permission to return to the U.S. despite a formal deportation. But this waiver can’t be filed immediately. She must wait outside the U.S. for at least 10 years before becoming eligible. Even then, approval is not guaranteed. The waiver is discretionary, based on “extreme hardship” to U.S. citizen family members—a bar that’s difficult to clear, no matter how compelling the personal story may be.
There’s also the legal matter of her criminal record. If her conviction were overturned on the basis of ineffective legal counsel—a possibility Ma hoped for—then the grounds for her deportation might be nullified. But so far, her second attorney has not pursued that path. Without action on that front, her legal foundation remains shaky.
Meanwhile, changes to immigration enforcement policy have continued to erode due process protections. The Trump administration previously floated the idea of using obscure laws like the Alien Enemies Act of 1798, which would allow for the deportation of non-citizens with minimal oversight, especially during times of national “emergency.” These types of legal shortcuts could make cases like Ma’s harder to contest in the future.
For non-citizens living in the U.S., especially green card holders and refugees, a criminal conviction can do far more than result in jail time—it can jeopardize the right to stay in the country. Here are key steps to protect yourself and your legal status if you’re ever facing criminal charges:
1. Always Consult an Immigration-Savvy Criminal Defense Attorney
Not all lawyers are familiar with the immigration consequences of criminal charges. Always make sure your defense attorney understands how a plea deal or conviction could impact your immigration status—or work with a separate immigration attorney alongside your criminal lawyer.
2. Never Sign Legal Documents Without Full Explanation
ICE and other officials may present documents for you to sign that seem routine but have major consequences, including deportation orders. Do not sign anything without having it reviewed by a qualified immigration lawyer, even under pressure.
3. Know the Difference Between a Conviction and a Plea
Even if you avoid jail time, certain plea deals still count as “convictions” under immigration law. What seems like a good deal in criminal court could be disastrous in immigration court.
4. Understand What Crimes Are Deportable Offenses
Certain crimes—especially drug-related offenses, theft, and fraud—are considered deportable under immigration law. Be aware that even seemingly minor or non-violent offenses can trigger removal proceedings.
5. Keep All Immigration Documentation Updated and Accessible
Maintain copies of your green card, work permits, and any communications with USCIS or ICE. In cases of detention, having these documents accessible to family or attorneys can make a difference.
6. If Detained, Assert Your Right to an Attorney
Non-citizens have the right to legal representation in immigration court (though not at government expense). If detained, request to speak to a lawyer and avoid giving detailed statements until you do.
7. Stay on Top of Check-Ins with ICE
If you are under an order of supervision, always attend scheduled check-ins. Missing even one can be grounds for detention. However, consult a lawyer before rescheduling or missing an appointment—even if you feel safe.
8. Fight for Post-Conviction Relief If You Had Bad Legal Advice
If your defense lawyer failed to warn you about immigration consequences, you may be eligible for post-conviction relief. This could reopen your case and potentially reverse a deportation order.
9. Connect With Advocacy Groups
Organizations like the Southeast Asia Resource Action Center (SEARAC) and local refugee advocacy groups offer legal guidance, connections to pro bono attorneys, and emotional support during legal battles.
10. Plan Ahead for Family Support and Documentation
In cases where deportation is possible, make arrangements for caregiving, finances, and legal guardianship of children. Secure power of attorney and ensure someone you trust can access your legal records and accounts.
Torn Apart, but Not Forgotten
Ma Yang’s story is not just about deportation—it’s about disconnection. It’s about how a mother, caretaker, and community member was stripped of everything familiar and placed into an unfamiliar world with no safety net. It’s about how one misstep, compounded by flawed legal counsel and harsh immigration policy, can spiral into lifelong consequences.
Her experience lays bare the brutal reality faced by many non-citizens living in America: a system where punishment can extend far beyond prison, where families can be separated without a clear path to reunification, and where historical alliances—like the Hmong community’s support of the U.S. in wartime—are forgotten when it’s politically convenient.
But Ma’s story also serves as a warning and a call to action. It urges us to question the rigidity of our immigration system, the fairness of our legal processes, and the humanity we extend to those who’ve already paid their debt. Because behind every policy decision, there are real people—and sometimes, the damage done can’t be undone.
Feature Image from Website @TMJ4
