Two days before Estela Ramos Baten was detained during a mandatory immigration check-in, she turned 45. It would be her last birthday.

The mother-of-seven’s health was already fragile when she and her teenage daughter, Nory Sontay Ramos, were deported to their native Guatemala on July 4 — as The 19th reported first. Ramos Baten’s arms ached after years of labor as a seamstress, but as persistent as that pain was, it hadn’t devastated her body like her inflamed liver and high blood pressure. She was in such physical torment that she could no longer work.

Then, her abrupt removal from Los Angeles, where she had lived since 2016 after fleeing gang violence in her homeland, deprived her of medical treatment, her relatives said. Nine weeks later, Ramos Baten died on September 8 from complications of liver cirrhosis after complaining she felt ill that day. 

To immigration advocates, her death was not an isolated event but the end result of policy shifts that have sown terror and chaos in immigrant communities since President Donald Trump’s return to the White House. Trump pledged to target immigrants with criminal records, but his reach has been far wider. Women who lack permanent legal status, like Ramos Baten — asylum seekers, mothers and longtime residents — are now casualties. Her demise leaves her teenage daughter, due to start her senior year in high school before deportation, orphaned in a country she hasn’t lived in since early childhood. 

“I’m really sad and lost because my mom was the only one that I knew,” Sontay Ramos said about life in Guatemala now. “We left together to go to the United States, and we got deported together. I feel so alone because she’s the only one that I knew [here] that I’m really close to.”

Before her mother died, the duo was sharing a home with one of Sontay Ramos’ older sisters and her two children in Quetzaltenango — a city in Guatemala’s Western highlands known for its foaming volcanoes and neoclassical architecture. Since Sontay Ramos grew up apart from this sibling, who remained in Guatemala when she and her mother moved to the United States, living with her has not abated her loneliness. 

“It’s not the same,” Sontay Ramos, who turned 18 the month after she was deported, said through sniffles. “I’m used to my mom. It’s not the same at all.”

Headed out to choose a memorial cross for her mother’s gravesite, the teenager made a spiritual vow: “I will always be with her.”

A garment worker’s struggle

That Ramos Baten died in middle age belies the fact that she was a survivor who had, improbably, made a life for herself in the United States. Born in a rural village in Totonicapán, she wed at 14 and had nine children. Two predeceased her, as did Sontay Ramos’ father, her family said. 

Although illness and death had long shadowed her, Ramos Baten did not crumble when gang members threatened her life. She fled Guatemala with Sontay Ramos, her youngest child, to seek asylum in the United States, starting over in Los Angeles. Some of her relatives had already relocated to the metropolitan area, which has the nation’s highest percentage of Central American immigrants and an estimated 250,000 residents of Indigenous Latin American ancestry. That included Ramos Baten, who was of Mayan K’iche’ heritage.

She and her daughter settled near downtown, in L.A.’s Westlake District, where signage and Mesoamerican glyphs call out that almost a mile stretch of this diverse community constitutes the “Maya Corridor.” Close by is Little Guatemala, the famous night market where street cooks serve up spicy meat and tangy cabbage tacos with plantains fried until they’re crisp and oil drenched. Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain visited shortly before his 2018 death. But Ramos Baten found work in another local industry, the city’s garment sector, which boasts 45,000 workers, many of them living in the country without legal authorization.

“L.A. is the garment manufacturing capital of the U.S.,” said Marissa Nuncio, executive director of the Los Angeles-based Garment Worker Center, which advocates for employee rights. “The workforce is primarily female, primarily immigrants. They’re making women’s apparel, athleisure, denim. It’s really an expert workforce. The workers have [been] in this industry for an average of 21 years.”

But this skilled work is grueling and poorly compensated. For years, California’s garment workers were paid a “per piece” rate, or for each piece of clothing they stitched together — suffering repetitive motion injuries from sewing hundreds of seams for pennies a day. A 2022 state law prohibited that practice, requiring workers to earn at least an hourly minimum wage, but individuals who do not have legal status still face sweatshop pay and hazardous working conditions. Some facilities are packed with fabric and boxes that block exits and, thus, unannounced visits from inspectors, Nuncio said. 

“Women are navigating the impacts of this low-wage work,” she said. “They’re trying to make miracles with very few dollars to feed their families, to keep a roof over their family’s heads. They’re often doing that on a transnational basis as well and supporting families back home, while they’re also facing gender discrimination in the workplace, including sexual harassment. This takes a toll on their physical and mental health.”

The laboriousness of garment work did not spare Ramos Baten, who became a seamstress after arriving in the United States. “She started hurting,” Sontay Ramos said, recalling that her arms were warm with inflammation even during cool weather. But, the teen added, her mother never wanted to burden her with her problems, so she didn’t dwell on her discomfort.  

“She was the nicest woman ever. She had a sweet heart,” said Sontay Ramos, her high, girlish voice cracking with grief. “She would never let her children be sad. She would always be with you, and she was just, like, the best mother.” Ramos Baten found joy in ordinary activities like going to the grocery store, giving gifts and spending time with her loved ones. “She was always kind. She was always buying things for my nephews.” 

In addition to her children, Ramos Baten leaves behind a longtime partner and 16 grandchildren spread out between Guatemala and the United States; one of her older daughters moved to Los Angeles seven years ago. That daughter, a 27-year-old mother, corresponded via email in Spanish with The 19th, which is concealing her identity due to her legal status. 

She remembered her mother as a beautiful woman, loving grandmother and devotee of a particular culinary ritual — her fix of cafecito con pan. 

“She loved drinking a little coffee with bread; that’s what she drank every day,” she said. Ramos Baten also enjoyed tulips, red roses and stuffed animals, a sign of her playful side. “She loved jokes. She and I would joke around, and since I’m a joker, I loved my mom’s laugh.”

Squeezed like a lemon

Since Trump resumed office early this year, his administration claims that it has deported over 500,000 people, many of them asylum seekers like Ramos Baten. Data from the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse, a non-partisan research center, found that 71.5 percent of the nearly 60,000 immigrants detained in September had no criminal record.

“What’s missing from the conversation is the indirect effect on the people who are not specifically targeted,” said Valerie Lacarte, a senior policy analyst at the Migration Policy Institute, a nonpartisan think tank. “You have an administration that has, at least in its statements, been initially focused on unauthorized immigrants with criminal backgrounds. But the implementation of that policy is actually a lot broader. It’s about immigrants in general. So what we’re seeing is an unfocused effort that ends up creating fear in immigrant communities.”

Her small child was terrified after the deportation of their close relatives, Ramos Baten’s remaining daughter in Los Angeles told The 19th. 

“I felt very bad when I found out that my mom and my little sister had been deported and their rights were denied,” she said. “That was very hard for me, and even more for my 7-year-old son. He was afraid all the time. He was even afraid to go outside.” 

ICE’s violent arrests of immigrants in cities including Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., and Chicago have suggested to immigrants across the country that such fear is warranted. Mayra Joachín, a senior staff attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California, described a worrisome shift in enforcement tactics. 

“We are seeing the Trump administration operating in full force with the militarization of immigration agents,” Joachín said. “We’re seeing federal agents on the streets armed, carrying large rifles, masked, not identifying themselves and operating in a way that is just terrifying to the community — operating outside of constraints of what the law requires and doing so in a lawless way.”

For garment workers like Ramos Baten, the possibility of being detained this year became a constant concern, with a raid of a Los Angeles garment factory setting off a days-long conflict between protesters and the authorities that garnered national headlines in June. 

“What this time has been like for our members is a time of a lot of uncertainty and a lot of fear,” Nuncio said. “They’re making difficult decisions about whether to go to work, about whether to go to the doctor’s appointment.” The Garment Worker Center has stepped up efforts to protect its members through its Immigrant Worker Defense Fund and “Know Your Rights” workshops.

Nuncio described the garment industry as one that can “squeeze you like a lemon and then get all the juice out of you and leave you with nothing.” When laborers like Ramos Baten fall ill or age out, “there’s no retirement in this industry,” she said. “Workers are really left in a very precarious situation with a very thin social safety net.”

Out of work, health waning and in immigration limbo, Ramos Baten’s delicate safety net disintegrated during her final months in the United States. She and her daughter appeared at what they thought was a routine immigration check-in on June 30. This time, however, was different. Sontay Ramos, who had never been required to attend previous appointments, was told to show up — only to be deported beside her mother within five days. 

The medicine she needed

By July 4, the Ramoses were on a plane to Guatemala. The swiftness of their deportation left little time for legal recourse, raising questions about due process. The Department of Homeland Security contends that the pair simply exhausted their legal options to keep living in this country, since Ramos Baten’s asylum claim had already been denied.

“The quick transfers do raise concerns about whether the individuals are receiving adequate information about their rights before they’re transferred,” Joachín said. “It’s unclear what processes these individuals are actually being subjected to, and whether immigration agents are ensuring that before someone signs a document, that they do so with an understanding of what that document is.”

For their part, Sontay Ramos and her mother refused to sign paperwork, though that didn’t prevent their deportation or the confiscation of Ramos Baten’s medications, according to the teen. 

In response to detailed questions from The 19th about that medicine, an ICE spokesperson provided a statement saying the agency “does not deny aliens in custody access to medication.” He declined to discuss the specifics of the Ramos case or any allegations directly.

“It is a longstanding practice to provide comprehensive medical care from the moment an alien enters ICE custody,” he said. “This includes medical, dental, and mental health intake screening within 12 hours of arriving at each detention facility, a full health assessment within 14 days of entering ICE custody or arrival at a facility, and access to medical appointments and 24-hour emergency care.”

But Ramos Baten’s brief detention — less than a week — fell short of the agency’s 14-day window for a full assessment. Her Los Angeles-based daughter tried to send medications to Guatemala, but international restrictions prevented her from mailing the prescription drugs, she said.

Joachín has heard similar stories about detainees going without their prescriptions. “I have heard of concerns both about individuals not having access to medications, not being provided treatment, when either they’re at a processing center or an immigration detention,” she said.

For a person with cirrhosis, interrupted medical treatment is not merely inconvenient but potentially life-threatening. Dr. Norah Terrault, a professor of medicine and chief of Gastroenterology and Liver Diseases at the Keck School of Medicine at the University of Southern California, explained that cirrhosis is an advanced stage of liver disease in which scarring impairs the organ’s function and blood flow.

“The most important thing we can do to try to stabilize the cirrhosis and prevent it from getting worse is to treat the cause,” the hepatologist said. Alcohol use disorder, hepatitis C and metabolic dysfunction are contributing causes of cirrhosis, with some patients having more than one risk factor. “Medical care is needed to treat the underlying cause … and then to manage the complications.”

The stress Ramos Baten experienced during the last months of her life — detention, deportation and displacement to a country where she feared for her life — may have worsened her health. “When people are stressed, they don’t take as good care of themselves,” Terrault said. “They’re not sleeping, they’re not eating properly. When people have advanced chronic liver disease… you have to kind of be focused on health. A stress response is probably not helpful.” 

Sontay Ramos is not sure who to hold accountable for her mother’s death. The immigration officials who detained them “were just following Trump’s rules,” she said. “But they shouldn’t have taken her medication. That’s what was keeping her alive.”

Her older sister was more direct. “The truth is, my mom would not have died if immigration had not deported her,” the 27-year-old said. “She became very distressed and was afraid; that’s why she died — depression.”

The fight to come home

Her mother’s death has left Sontay Ramos mourning and managing adult responsibilities in a country that feels largely foreign. “It’s really hard at a young age dealing with all of this,” she said. “It’s really hard to be handling a lot of grown-up things.”

Dulce Orozco, a Massachusetts-based therapist who specializes in immigration issues, contextualized how the series of shocks — detention, deportation and death — might affect a young person in Sontay Ramos’ predicament. 

“We’re talking about different layers of things that have happened to her, and each of those things can be a different traumatic event,” Orozco said. “If untreated, that can lead to severe depression, severe anxiety. It can impact someone in pretty much every aspect of their life.”

Orozco explained that complex trauma can shatter a young person’s sense of safety and power, leaving them questioning their ability to make choices or even venture out into the world. 

But Sontay Ramos has support both in Guatemala and in the United States. Faith-based organizations and those for “returners” have offered their help to her in Guatemala while one of her teachers in Los Angeles, Darcy White, has been a lifeline from abroad. White has sent the teenager care packages, helped her get an ID and set up a bank account. Moreover, she began a GoFundMe campaign for her that has netted over six figures in donations since Ramos Baten’s tragic death. 

“I keep telling her how brave and strong she’s being,” White, a government teacher at Miguel Contreras Learning Complex, said of her former student. “She really is handling this the best she can.”

Legally, returning to the United States will be difficult for the 18-year-old. A major defect of the country’s immigration system, advocates say, is that children get deported as appendages of their parents without considering whether they have legitimate reasons to remain in the United States. Sontay Ramos had lived in Los Angeles for much of her life, running track and making the honor roll ahead of her senior year at Miguel Contreras.

If young people “don’t have the opportunity to do a full consult with an immigration lawyer, they may not have any idea about the range of immigration relief types that are available to them,” said Leecia Welch, deputy litigation director for Children’s Rights, a New York-based nonprofit that challenges government systems that harm children and families. “It’s possible that Nory might have had her own independent claim that was essentially cut off by sending her back.”

Jennifer Ibañez Whitlock, senior policy counsel at the National Immigration Law Center, explained that had Ramos Baten died in the United States, her teenage daughter would have had a path to stay in the country lawfully through Special Immigrant Juvenile Status (SIJS). This humanitarian visa is designed for children who lack legal status and cannot be reunited with a parent, but the minor must be in the United States to qualify.

“That’s exactly what the Special Immigrant Juvenile visas were meant to protect: kids like her,” Whitlock said. Deportation may have closed that door for Sontay Ramos. 

The global law firm Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher LLP, headquartered in Los Angeles, recently decided to represent the teenager pro bono. “The facts of her case are heartbreaking, and her story is just so incredibly compelling,” said Katie Marquart, a partner and pro bono chair at the firm, which will advocate for Sontay Ramos in collaboration with the nonprofit Immigration Defenders Law Center. 

Their priority is to explore “any and all avenues of legal relief to get Nory back here,” Marquart said, but she declined to share which strategies they intend to use. “I’m hopeful that we’re going to be able to get Nory to safety and back to the only home she knows.”

A mother’s ring, a daughter’s future

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As afraid of gang violence as her mother, Sontay Ramos spends much of her time behind doors in a mostly vacant home in Guatemala’s second-largest city. Its pale, blank walls accentuate its barrenness, as does a dining room made up of just a folding table and a plastic stool. One treasure is a stuffed Hello Kitty doll sent by White that the teenager keeps on her bed. 

“It reminds me a lot of my cat” back in Los Angeles, she said. “Maybe it doesn’t look like my cat, but it’s kind of like someone’s with me.” 

The internet is her tether to the larger world — her family, friends, teachers and attorneys. 

In this spartan setting, Sontay Ramos has pondered what she wants to do in life. When she was deported, she hadn’t settled on a career, but now she’s certain: fashion design. The profession overlaps with her mother’s work in the garment sector.

“I really like fashion,” Sontay Ramos said. “It’s something that I really like to do.”

She’s never without her mother’s platinum-colored mock engagement ring that Ramos Baten gifted her after she begged to wear it a couple of years ago. Recently, the teen had a leather bracelet made with her mom’s name etched into it. The piece is twice as meaningful because she shares “Estela” as a middle name. 

Outside of the accessories she wears in honor of her mother, the 18-year-old’s typical aesthetic includes the color black, baggy Y2K-style jeans and cross necklaces, a symbol of her Catholic faith. 

She’s certain her mother is praying for her as she pursues a high school diploma remotely. The Los Angeles Unified School District decided to let her finish senior year online while her mother was still living.

“She was really happy that I could graduate,” Sontay Ramos said. Her mom, she explained, hardly received a formal education — having only completed first or second grade. 

Remote school hasn’t been easy for the teenager. “It’s really hard to just sit down by yourself,” she said. “I really miss my school. I miss my friends.” 

Yet, she’s determined to finish 12th grade, an achievement she knows would fill her mother with pride. 

Physical anguish and restless nights marked the end of the 45-year-old’s life, but she never stopped hoping for her daughter. During her final days, she pressed the youth to heed her words: “Just never give up on your future.”