A 62-year-old father, Maher Tarabishi, went to the ICE field office in Dallas, Texas, on 28 October, just as he has done annually for the past 17 years. Tarabishi, originally from Jordan, lives in the US under a supervision order. Although his asylum claim was denied, the government had allowed him to remain because he is the primary caregiver for his son, Wael, who was diagnosed at age four with Pompe disease, a progressive muscle disorder.
For years, these mandatory check-ins with ICE were routine. Tarabishi would show up, answer a few questions—often about Wael’s health—and then go home. This time, everything changed.
On that warm late fall day, ICE agents detained Tarabishi along with several others. When he didn’t return home and his family couldn’t reach him, they grew frantic. As his daughter-in-law, Shahd Arnaout, told the Guardian, the family usually hears from him “every five minutes”.
Four hours after his arrest, Tarabishi finally called to explain what happened. ICE is labeling him a “criminal alien” and alleging that he is a member of the Palestine Liberation Organization, which the US designated a terrorist organization in 1987.
“My father has lived in the United States for decades and has never committed a crime,” Wael said in a statement to a local TV station. “He has never been part of any terrorist organization. He has always followed the law, paid his taxes and attended every immigration appointment on time.”
To his family, the detention is a racist overreach and a sign that the Trump administration is determined to lock up as many people as possible. Meanwhile, 30-year-old Wael has been hospitalized with lung and blood infections. With his main caregiver in detention and no release date in sight, other relatives have had to step in to support him while they fight for Tarabishi’s freedom.
“Right now he’s feeling like he doesn’t want to live anymore,” Arnaout said of Wael. “Because they took the main reason that he’s fighting for.”
During Donald Trump’s second term, ICE has sharply increased arrests and detentions of people with no criminal records. At the time of writing, nearly 74% of those held in ICE detention have no criminal convictions. Immigration arrests are up across every state, with Texas at the forefront.
Being detained during a routine check-in has become a hallmark of the second Trump presidency. In Dallas, it’s now a common pattern. Still, Tarabishi’s family says he went into his October appointment with no fear.
“He’s been doing it for years,” Arnaout said. “And it was supposed to be just another day.”
When the Guardian contacted ICE about his case, a Department of Homeland Security spokesperson shared a statement saying, in part: “ICE’s successful arrest of Tarabishi shows clear evidence of the game-changing impact the Trump administration’s immigration enforcement efforts are having to restore common sense to our immigration system, strengthen national security and public safety in our country by arresting terrorists like this.”
After his arrest, the family was told that Tarabishi would be held at Prairieland detention center, less than 40 miles from Dallas. But days went by with no contact, and there was no record of him at Prairieland. With the help of an activist who searched detention databases, the family eventually discovered that Maher had been transferred to a facility in Anson, Texas, roughly three hours away.
Since then, they’ve been able to speak to him by phone almost daily. They describe Tarabishi as deeply emotional and frightened, feeling lost among detainees who are mostly decades younger than he is.
“He keeps saying, ‘Don’t forget about me. Don’t leave me alone,’” Arnaout said.
He begins every call with the same question: “How’s Wael doing?”
The arrest has had a crushing impact on his son, whom relatives describe as Tarabishi’s best friend. Father and son have been inseparable from the beginning, and Tarabishi has developed an almost expert-level understanding of Pompe disease—a condition that leads to progressive muscle weakness, enlarged organs, and serious breathing problems. When children are diagnosed early, the prognosis is often bleak.
“The doctor told him, ‘You’re not going to make it past five,’” Arnaout said about Wael. “I’m looking at him now, and he’s 30.”
She and Wael’s mother say his survival and relative stability are largely due to Maher’s relentless care. While working as an electrical engineer, he was also by his son’s side through dozens of surgeries, constantly encouraging him and managing every aspect of his treatment.
“Maher was his case manager, his equipment company, his doctor, his everything,” said Wael’s mother, who asked the Guardian not to use her name.
A few weeks after Maher was detained, Wael was hospitalized with multiple infections at once. At one point, his heart stopped.
When the family called Maher to tell him what had happened, they heard him collapse on the other end of the line. They reassured him that Wael had regained consciousness and was receiving care, but it was little comfort. Maher began praying through his sobs.
During the interview for this story, Wael lay in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes and monitors. Speaking was difficult, so his sister-in-law often stepped in to interpret what he was trying to say. He talked about his father (“He’s my miracle,” he said) and their shared love of the Dallas Mavericks. When the Luka Dončić trade was mentioned, Wael responded quickly: “I don’t want to talk about it.”
His cousin, mother and sister-in-law stayed close by his side. When the conversation turned back to his father, tears ran down Wael’s face.
“I don’t want him to cry a lot, because every time he cries and he gets emotional, his oxygen level will drop,” his mother said.
Arnaout again tried to convey how urgent the situation feels for both men.
“I want this son to be returned with his father today, before tomorrow,” she said. “We are at the point where we’re not trying to lose either of them.”
