The nearly 800,000 young people nationwide who call themselves DREAMers didn’t get an early Christmas gift.

Congress recessed for the holidays before coming to any policy resolution regarding the hundreds of thousands of children brought to the United States through no fault of their own and, as a result, left in a precarious position: No other notion of home and yet no solution granting them residency.

Five years ago, former President Barack Obama flexed his executive authority and created the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, which eased some of their fears. The program shielded these young people from deportation and granted them work permits as long as they met certain criteria. But, in September, the Trump administration announced that it was moving to end the program by March — essentially forcing lawmakers to act on the matter within six months.

The DACA wind-down plunged the so-called DREAMers back into the land of uncertainty. They’re anxiously waiting to see if Congress will ever pass a so-called Dream Act, a measure that would allow them to legally stay in the United States.

But the political turmoil surrounding their immigration status hasn’t stopped some DREAMers from making their stories known. The Nevada Independent spoke with a number of DACA recipients who call Southern Nevada home, and we will be rolling out miniature profiles featuring them over the next few days. They may be your neighbor, classmate or co-worker, and here’s what they wanted the community to know about their immigration journeys, hopes, fears and dreams for the future:

Juan Juarez

Juan Juarez once held a car wash to raise money for a $495 application fee for a program that could shield him from deportation. It netted him roughly $85.

Family and friends helped Juarez, then a college sophomore, cobble together the remaining $410, and he applied for the DACA program in November 2012. Five months later, the United States government granted Juarez deferred action — making him one of the thousands of so-called DREAMers created under the Obama-era program that protected from deportation immigrants who were brought to the United States illegally as children.

That pivotal moment happened for Juarez at age 10. He was visiting family in Chihuahua — a Mexican state that sits just south of Texas and New Mexico — when his mother decided they should head to Phoenix, where some relatives lived.

The pair used their visas to cross the U.S.-Mexico border but ended up living in Phoenix as undocumented immigrants.

“She wanted to come and have enough money to build a house in Mexico,” Juarez, now 24, said.

Their plan changed, as is often the case for immigrants who move to the United States seeking a better job. They stayed, and Juarez graduated from an Arizona high school. He earned enough scholarships to enter Grand Canyon University, a private institution in Phoenix.

When Obama announced the creation of the DACA program from the White House’s Rose Garden in June 2012, Juarez said a sense of relief washed over him.

“It was a moment when you felt at peace,” he said. “There was a lot of uncertainty that you could be stopped or you could be detained or that somebody you know or even your mom could be taken away. When that came by, I felt safe. I felt like I could finally pursue what I wanted to do with my schooling and my career.”

A month after the federal government approved Juarez’s DACA application, he got a call from CNN. The major news network had accepted him into its Washington, D.C.-based internship program — an opportunity that helped launch Juarez’s budding media career. Two years ago, he moved to Las Vegas to work as a multimedia journalist at Univision.

Trump’s decision in September to wind down the program didn’t come as a shock to Juarez. He had mentally prepared himself for the possibility. His DACA permit expires in January 2019.

He wants to be part of the solution but acknowledged the coming year will be “very decisive” for his future. Amid his own uncertainty, however, he has one less person to worry about — his mother. She recently married and became a legal resident.

“I’m glad she’s safer and has her documents fixed,” he said. “I hope that I can get mine too.”

America Reyes

On the day the Obama administration announced the creation of the DACA program, America Reyes’ father cried.

He understood the magnitude of what his daughter hadn’t fully comprehended yet: Doors previously closed to Reyes — then a junior in high school — because of her immigration status suddenly had opened.

“Growing up, I didn’t really realize what effect being undocumented would have on me,” she said.

The program’s effect soon became clear. Reyes obtained her driver’s license, bought her first car and began applying for college — all things previously rendered impossible given her lack of a Social Security number. DACA changed that, granting her protection from deportation and a work permit.

Reyes was 5 years old when her mother placed her in the care of an American family who offered to shepherd her across the U.S.-Mexico border. She slept in the strangers’ vehicle as her mother walked through the desert, a journey that would ultimately reunite her family. Reyes’ father had moved to Las Vegas first and lived with an uncle while securing a job and place to live for his wife and daughter waiting back in Mexico City.

“My dad had heard that people usually have a better education here,” she said. “He knew back there I was just not going to have the same opportunities, so he kind of (made) the decision because of me.”

The family settled in the area of Tropicana Avenue and Jones Boulevard, where they remain to this day. Her father worked two jobs to support the growing family. Her two younger sisters were born here, creating what Reyes refers to as a “mixed status” family. The situation — some family members as legal residents while others are not — sparked family conversations about what would happen if Reyes or her parents faced deportation.

Despite their parents’ protests, her sisters, now ages 13 and 14, insist they would leave too, Reyes said.

DACA gave Reyes, now 21, the same sense of security her sisters were awarded at birth, she said, and enabled her to pursue the education that motivated her parents to cross the border illegally. She’s a criminal justice major at UNLV who hopes to one day become a judge.

“It’s been a huge blessing,” she said, rattling off the opportunities provided by the policy. “Those small things kind of normalize your life. You feel like a normal person here.”

Mariana Sarmiento

On a recent Saturday, Mariana Sarmiento stood in a UNLV classroom filled with mariachi music, cake and balloons to honor students who had just graduated.

The ceremony had a special meaning for these recent graduates: They were all DACA recipients who, without the Obama-era program, may never have attended college.

It wasn’t too long ago that Sarmiento, who was born in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, experienced the same sense of pride and joy. Sarmiento received her bachelor’s degree in sociology from UNLV in May and has since enrolled in graduate school, where she’s pursuing a master’s degree in social work.

The path that led her to college started when she was 2 years old. That’s when her family moved to the Las Vegas to escape the violence and challenging economy plaguing their home city. Until late in elementary school, Sarmiento didn’t realize the challenges she would face as an undocumented immigrant.

“I didn’t know it was different when you didn’t have papers,” Sarmiento said. “The first time I found out about my own situation was in fifth grade, when I was invited to Washington, D.C. to participate in a program or something and my mom told me, ‘You can’t go because you don’t have papers,’ but I didn’t think my whole life would be like that.”

The creation of the DACA program in June 2012, she said, changed her fortunes. She attended college, completed internships and traveled. But the program that shielded her from deportation and granted her a work permit also thrust her into a supportive community.

“DACA, I think, brought us all closer together in some way because it allowed us to share our story and be open about that without fear,” she said. “That was the biggest thing, I think.”

Sarmiento said that, like many other DREAMers, she felt sadness and anger when President Donald Trump moved to rescind the program. It seemed to threaten what she considers her biggest accomplishment — living the stable, secure and healthy life her parents envisioned for her when they made their decision to cross the U.S.-Mexico border.

In the months that followed Trump’s decision, her perspective brightened a bit.

“As time went by, I became a bit more empowered by the community around me and just kind of the idea of this isn’t going to end here,” she said. “We’re going to fight back.”