The tragic death of a Costa Rican man, deported by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) while in a vegetative state, has ignited a firestorm of controversy and grief. But here’s where it gets heartbreaking: Randall Alberto Gamboa Esquivel, a 52-year-old man who had traveled to the U.S. in search of work, was arrested in February, seemingly disappeared from his family’s reach in June, and was eventually found bedridden and unresponsive in August. His family alleges negligence and inhumane treatment, while the Trump administration defends the care he received, claiming it was better than what many immigrants experience in their lifetimes. And this is the part most people miss: Gamboa’s story isn’t just about immigration policy—it’s about human dignity, accountability, and the moral compass of a nation.
Gamboa’s journey began in December 2024 when he re-entered the U.S. illegally, a felony under U.S. law. Arrested by ICE in Texas, he was initially held at the Webb County Detention Center before being transferred to another facility in Port Isabel. His family recalls daily phone calls until his sudden silence in June. It wasn’t until later that they learned he had been hospitalized with unspecified psychosis, though details remained scarce. By August, after being scammed by two attorneys and finally locating him with a third, they found Gamboa in a vegetative state, unable to eat or care for himself. ICE arranged for his transport to Costa Rica via air ambulance in September, but he succumbed to his ailments in a hospital in Pérez Zeledón on October 26.
Here’s where it gets controversial: While the Trump administration insists that Gamboa received adequate care, his family and supporters paint a starkly different picture. Adriana Ureña, Gamboa’s partner, described his treatment in the U.S. as “terrible,” and former Costa Rican President Óscar Arias, a Nobel Peace Prize laureate, condemned the “complicit silence” of both Costa Rica and the U.S. Arias, whose U.S. visa was revoked by the Trump administration earlier this year, emphasized that Gamboa’s family deserves answers. But is the U.S. government willing to provide them? And should Costa Rica push harder for accountability?
Assistant Homeland Security Secretary Tricia McLaughlin defended ICE’s actions, stating that Gamboa’s safety and wellbeing were priorities. Yet, government data reveals a troubling trend: immigrants with no criminal record make up the largest group in ICE detention, despite the administration’s claims to target violent criminals. Gamboa himself had prior convictions for non-violent offenses, including driving a commercial vehicle without a license and fraud. This raises a critical question: Are U.S. immigration policies disproportionately targeting non-violent individuals, and at what human cost?
And this is the part that sparks debate: While the Trump administration asserts that “criminal illegal immigrants are not welcome in the U.S.,” critics argue that the line between legality and humanity is being blurred. Gamboa’s sister, Greidy Mata, poignantly reminded the world that her brother was “not a delinquent—he was wholly loved.” His death, surrounded by family, stands in stark contrast to the circumstances that led to it. Was his treatment a reflection of policy gone awry, or an isolated incident? We invite you to share your thoughts in the comments—is the U.S. immigration system in need of reform, or is it functioning as intended?
As Gamboa’s story continues to reverberate, it forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about justice, compassion, and the value of human life. Will his legacy spark change, or will it fade into the annals of forgotten tragedies? The answer may lie in how we choose to respond—both as individuals and as a society.
