logo
Journalists and human rights leaders flee El Salvador as Bukele jails dissidents

Journalists and human rights leaders flee El Salvador as Bukele jails dissidents

MEXICO CITY — They have fled to Guatemala, Mexico, Costa Rica and Spain. Most left in a hurry with few possessions, unsure of when — or whether — they would be able to return home.
As El Salvador cracks down on dissent, jailing critics of President Nayib Bukele, droves of human rights activists, journalists and other members of civil society are leaving the country out of fear.
More than 100 people have fled in recent months — the biggest exodus of political exiles since the country's bloody civil war. That puts El Salvador in the company of other authoritarian Latin American nations, including Nicaragua and Venezuela, where dissent has been criminalized and critics choose between prison and exile.
On Thursday, one of El Salvador's most prominent human rights groups joined the flight. Cristosal, founded in 2000 by leaders of the Episcopal Church, announced that it had suspended its operations in the country, and that nearly two dozen of its staffers had left.
Cristosal has been a thorn in the side of Bukele, a charismatic populist who has embraced strongman tactics — and who has been emboldened by his close alliance with President Trump.
The group slammed Bukele's unconstitutional run for a second presidential term last year. It has criticized El Salvador's ongoing suspension of civil liberties as part of Bukele's sweeping crackdown on gangs, and provided legal representation to hundreds of people it says were wrongly imprisoned in the country's notorious jails.
Cristosal's leaders have for years faced surveillance, police harassment and attacks by Bukele on social media.
But this year, authorities passed a new law that would impose a 30% tax on donations to nongovernmental organizations like Cristosal. And in May, police arrested Ruth Eleonora López, the leader of the group's anti-corruption program, alleging she stole public funds during a stint working for the government years earlier. International rights organizations, including Amnesty International, say the charges are spurious and politically motivated and that López is being denied the right to a fair trial.
Her detention and the recent jailing of other outspoken Bukele critics, including constitutional lawyer Enrique Anaya, environmental activist Alejandro Henríquez and pastor José Ángel Pérez, prompted Cristosal to shutter its offices and remove its employees from the country, said the group's director, Noah Bullock.
'There is no impartial institution where we can plead our case if and when the government decides to continue to persecute us and our staff,' Bullock said. 'We can't help anybody if we're all in prison.'
Bukele's Nuevas Ideas party controls Congress and has purged the judiciary, replacing independent judges with loyalists.
Amid that concentration of power, independent journalism and civic groups 'were the only pillar of democracy that remained,' Bullock said. He said the recent arrests send a clear message: 'Democracy is over.'
'El Salvador is on a dark path,' said Ivania Cruz, an attorney who heads another nonprofit, the Unidad de Defensa de los Derechos Humanos y Comunitarios. She has been living in Spain with her son since February, when her group's office was raided and one of her colleagues was arrested.
Cruz, too, had represented inmates swept up in Bukele's mass imprisonment campaign, under which more than 85,000 people, or nearly 2% of El Salvador's population, were locked up. 'Bukele has criminalized us for defending the rights of the people,' she said.
Indefinite exile in a new country has not been easy, she said. 'I came with only a small suitcase,' she said. 'It's hard knowing you can't go home and you have no choice but to start a new life.'
Bukele has also waged a campaign against journalists.
An analysis by the University of Toronto's Citizen Lab and digital rights group Access Now found that more than two dozen journalists were surveilled for more than a year with the spyware Pegasus, whose Israeli developer sells exclusively to governments.
At least 40 journalists have fled the country, according to the organization that represents them in El Salvador. They include the reporters who documented the Bukele government's negotiations with gangs, corruption in the awarding of public contracts during the COVID-19 pandemic and the fact that Bukele and his family purchased 34 properties valued at more than $9 million during his first presidential term.
El Faro, the investigative news site that first exposed the gang negotiations, pulled its reporters out of the country after government sources warned that they were about to be arrested.
'We know what's coming: exile or prison,' editor-in-chief Oscar Martínez said in an interview published by the Committee to Protect Journalists earlier this year. 'As long as we have time, we'll keep reporting.'
Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

No One Was Supposed to Leave Alive
No One Was Supposed to Leave Alive

Atlantic

time9 hours ago

  • Atlantic

No One Was Supposed to Leave Alive

One night in mid-May, some of the Venezuelan migrants deported from the United States to a prison in El Salvador tried to break the locks on their cells with metal rails from their beds. It was a futile gesture of rebellion; no one thought they could escape. Still, punishment was swift. For six consecutive days, the inmates were subjected to lengthy beatings, three inmates told me. On the last day, male guards brought in their female colleagues, who struck the naked prisoners as the male guards recorded videos on their phones and laughed. The female guards would count to 20 as they administered the beatings, and if the prisoners complained or cried out, they would start again. Tito Martínez, one of the inmates, recalled that a prison nurse was watching. 'Hit the piñata,' she cheered. When the government of El Salvador opened the prison complex known as CECOT in 2023, the country's security minister said the inmates would only be able to get out ' inside a coffin.' This promise has largely been kept. The Salvadoran human-rights organization Cristosal has documented cases of prisoners being transported out of the jail for urgent medical care, but these inmates died soon after, before anyone could ask them what it was like inside the prison. What little is known about life in CECOT (the Spanish acronym for Terrorism Confinement Center) comes from the media tours staged by President Nayib Bukele, which show men crammed into cells with bare-metal bunkbeds stacked to the ceiling like human shelving. In most of the videos posted online, the men—some with the facial tattoos of the country's gangs—stand in silence. The Salvadoran government has encouraged CECOT's terrifying reputation, turning the prison into a museum where Bukele's tough-on-gangs tactics can be exhibited for the press. But media visits are also strictly controlled. Interviews with prisoners are rare and tightly supervised. On Friday, for the first time, a group of prisoners walked out of CECOT's gates as free men. They were 252 of the Venezuelans that the Trump administration had deported to El Salvador in March when it alleged—while offering little to no evidence—that they were gang members. This month, Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro negotiated a prisoner swap with the United States, releasing 10 American citizens in his custody and dozens of Venezuelan political prisoners. In return, the Venezuelans in El Salvador were put on a plane and sent to Caracas. They brought with them detailed accounts of beatings and harsh treatment. (The government of El Salvador did not respond to a request for comment about their claims.) Four former prisoners told me they were punched, kicked, and struck with clubs. They were cut off from contact with their families, deprived of legal help, and taunted by guards. All recalled days spent in a punishment cell known as 'the island,' a dark room with no water where they slept on the floor. Those days, the only light they could see came from a dim lightbulb in the ceiling that illuminated a cross. I talked with Keider Alexander Flores over the phone yesterday, just a few hours after Venezuelan police officers dropped him off at his mother's house in Caracas. Flores told me that he and his brother left Venezuela in 2023, trekking through the jungles of Panama's Darién Gap and riding buses all the way to Mexico. They applied for an appointment to cross into the United States legally and arrived in Texas in August. Flores soon settled in Dallas and started an asylum application, but he didn't complete the process. He found work laying carpet. His real passion was music: He DJed under the name Keyder Flower. In one of his Instagram posts, he flexes his teenage muscles as he plays tracks by a pool. From the September 2024 issue: Seventy miles in hell In December, after a DJ gig at a house party in Dallas, Flores was riding in the passenger seat of a friend's car when they were pulled over. Flores told me they had smoked marijuana, and the police took them to the station. Later he was sent to ICE detention. At an immigration hearing, the judge told him that he wouldn't be able to return to the United States for 10 years, because he had broken U.S. law. When asked what country he wanted to be deported to, Flores said Venezuela. While in ICE detention, Flores learned that he had been flagged as 'an active member' of the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua. Federal agents showed up to interview him, he said. They had seen his pictures on Instagram and said his hand signals looked suspicious. 'I was doing a cool sign, but they said it was a gesture of Tren de Aragua,' Flores told me. Flores knew about CECOT. He had seen videos at the ICE detention center in Texas, where the TV sometimes showed cable news. In mid-March, he called his brother from detention to say that he was about to get deported to Venezuela; two days later, he was put on a plane. ICE guards didn't let the passengers open the window shades during the flight. Flores and his fellow detainees found out they were in El Salvador only after they had landed. Another newly released Venezuelan prisoner I spoke with, Juan José Ramos, told me he'd entered the United States legally, with an appointment for an asylum hearing, and had barely settled down in Utah when ICE agents stopped his car on the way to Walmart, arresting him with no explanation. He said that when the men arrived at CECOT, they saw inmates wearing white T-shirts and shorts, heads completely shaved. Ramos asked a Salvadoran guard who these men were and why they were crying. The guard replied: 'That's you. All of you will end up like that. We will treat you all the same.' Flores, Ramos, and others I spoke with shared similar accounts of what happened next. The Venezuelans were taken to a wing of CECOT known as Module 8, with 32 cells, and didn't interact with the rest of the prisoners. The inmates communicated with one another via hand signals, because when they spoke, they were beaten. They slept on metal bunks, often without mattresses. Soap and juice bottles were luxuries afforded prior to visits by representatives of the Red Cross, who came twice during their four-month stay. Sometimes, the guards gave the prisoners better meals than usual, took pictures with their phones, then took the food away, Ramos, Flores, and others told me. A riot broke out in April, after guards beat one of the inmates to the point that he started convulsing, Flores told me. The incident convinced the Venezuelans that they had to do something. 'If your friend was being beaten, would you leave him alone as they beat him?' Flores asked me. Adam Serwer: Trump's Salvadoran Gulag Seven of the Venezuelans arrived days after the rest, deported from Guantánamo, where a hunger strike had broken out. They suggested doing the same at CECOT. Flores, Ramos, and others I spoke with said every inmate they knew joined the hunger strike, which lasted for several days. Some took their protest further by cutting themselves on the corners of their metal bunks. They called that a huelga de sangre: 'blood strike.' Three or four days after the strike started, two prison directors came to negotiate. The inmates agreed to end the strike in exchange for an assurance that the beatings would stop. 'They let us live for a while,' Flores told me. But in mid-May, when a few inmates refused to have their cells inspected, the guards beat them. That's when a second riot broke out. The guards responded by shooting the inmates with pellets. Then came the six days of beatings. Martínez, 26, told me he was pulled over while driving in El Paso, Texas, in February because his license plate had expired. The officer was ready to let him go with a warning, but asked Martínez to remove his shirt. Martínez had tattoos of Bible verses and the name of his wife. The officer called ICE. Martínez, who fell ill after the hunger strike, had to be taken to a clinic, where a nurse told him he had suffered serious liver damage. After the beatings, Martínez told me, some inmates vomited blood, and others couldn't walk for days. 'If they're going to kill us, I hope they kill us soon,' he said he told himself. The guards told him he would spend the rest of his life in CECOT. Until early Friday morning, when Martínez was sent home as abruptly as he'd arrived, he had believed them.

El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself
El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself

Yahoo

time16 hours ago

  • Yahoo

El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself

The fiercest voices of dissent against President Nayib Bukele have long feared a widespread crackdown. They weathered police raids on their homes, watched their friends being thrown into jail and jumped between safe houses so they can stay in El Salvador. Then they received a warning: Leave immediately. It's exile or prison. A combination of high-profile detentions, a new 'foreign agents' law, violent repression of peaceful protesters and the risk of imminent government detention has driven more than 100 political exiles to flee in recent months. The biggest exodus of journalists, lawyers, academics, environmentalists and human rights activists in years is a dark reminder of the nation's brutal civil war decades ago, when tens of thousands of people are believed to have escaped. Exiles who spoke to The Associated Press say they are scattered across Central America and Mexico with little more than backpacks and a lingering question of where they will end up. 'We're living through a moment where history is repeating itself," said Ingrid Escobar, leader of the human rights legal group Socorro Juridico, who fled El Salvador with her two children. 'We've lost everything," she said. Bukele's administration did not respond to requests for comment. 'We'll have to leave this country' Bukele, 43, has long been criticized for chipping away at democracy and committing human rights abuses in his war on gangs, in which the government waived constitutional rights and arrested more than 1% of El Salvador's population. Activists and journalists say for years they have faced mounting harassment and threats from the self-described 'world's coolest dictator,' whose tongue-in-cheek social media persona, bet on bitcoin and tough-on-crime discourse has gained him the adoration of many on the American right. Despite 60% of Salvadorans saying they fear publicly expressing political opinions in a recent poll, Bukele continues to enjoy soaring levels of approval because violence plummeted following his crackdown on gangs. Escobar — one of the populist's most vocal critics — said that as her organization challenged the government through thousands of legal cases, police constantly surveilled her family, showing up outside her mother's house and her 7- and 11-year-old children's schools. 'One day, we'll have to leave this country,' she told them, hoping it wasn't true. But things have reached an inflection point in recent months as Bukele grows emboldened by his alliance with President Donald Trump, namely due to the detention of hundreds of Venezuelan deportees in a Salvadoran prison made for gangs. In May, the El Salvador government passed a 'foreign agents' law resembling legislation used by Russia, Venezuela and Nicaragua to criminalize dissent by targeting organizations receiving overseas funding. Shortly after, police detained Ruth López, an anti-corruption lawyer at El Salvador's top human rights organization Cristosal, accusing her of corruption. López denies the allegations. As police escorted her in shackles to a June court appearance, she shouted: 'They're not going to silence me! I want a public trial!" Her detention came amid the arrests of several critics. On Thursday, Cristosal announced it had quietly evacuated all of its staff to Guatemala and Honduras, and shut down operations in El Salvador. 'The justice system has been weaponized against us," said Cristosal leader Noah Bullock. 'Nobody in El Salvador has any doubt that the government can detain whoever it wants and disappear them in prisons indefinitely." 'If I stay, will I die?' Escobar soon received news that her name appears on a list with 11 other journalists and activists targeted for detention. Escobar, who was about to enter treatment for sarcoma, a rare form of cancer, worried that if she was thrown in prison, she wouldn't receive care. Around a third of hundreds of deaths in prisons under Bukele were caused by a lack of medical attention. 'I asked myself one question: 'If I stay, will I die?'' she said. In June, she and her children slipped across the Guatemala border, flew to the U.S. and then to another Latin American country. She looks over her shoulder every day. Many of the exiles asked AP to not disclose their locations, fearing they could be tracked down. Others who have fled were too scared to speak on the record, even anonymously. A couple flees Journalist Mónica Rodríguez, 40, and her husband, 37-year-old activist Steve Magaña, are in exile. They were among a handful of people who documented on video Salvadoran police violently quashing a peaceful demonstration. Hundreds of protesters, including children and elderly people, wanted the president to stop the eviction of their rural community on a road near his house. 'It contradicted Bukele's discourse,' Rodríguez said. 'They were repressing people and we were the ones evidencing it." Bukele later posted on the social platform X that the community had been "manipulated" by NGOs and journalists, then announced the foreign agents law. Soon came the arrests and more people fled the country. Rodríguez said police showed photos of her and her husband to the community, asking where they were. Rodríguez and Magaña were already scared after masked police officers raided their home months earlier, seizing computers, cellphones, Magaña's credit cards and hard drives containing Rodríguez's reporting materials. The couple went into hiding, hopping between four safe houses in San Salvador before leaving the country. In June, the Association of Journalists in El Salvador reported that at least 40 journalists fled the country in a matter of weeks. 'We've lost it all' For some, including 55-year-old Jorge Beltrán, a reporter who served in the Salvadoran military during the civil war, it's a case of déjà vu. Between 1979 and 1992, war raged between a repressive, U.S.-backed government and leftist guerrillas. While there's no universally agreed upon number, historians believe tens of thousands of political exiles fled, including opposition leaders, journalists and human rights activists. The U.N. estimates around 1 million people left the country over the course of the war. 'I never thought I'd live through something like that again," Beltrán said. "The armed conflict paved the way for a fledgling democracy we enjoyed for a few years. ... Something was achieved. And now we've lost it all.' The journalist investigating corruption in El Salvador for the newspaper El Diario de Hoy said he pushed back against legal attacks before going into exile. Beltrán was sued by a business owner with close ties to the government over 'moral damages' for his investigation that uncovered evidence of corruption. He was ordered to pay $10 million by a Salvadoran court. Meanwhile, he said, officials constantly harassed him for not revealing his sources in stories about human trafficking and continued forced disappearances. He eventually received a call from a government official warning that police might come for him. 'I recommend you leave the country. You're one of the 'objectives' they're looking to silence,' Beltrán said he was told. 'You can leave journalism, but they'll make you pay for what you already did.' He left El Salvador alone with two bags of medicine for high blood pressure and his war injuries, a book about government repression and two letters from his wife and daughter saying they hoped they would meet again one day. With bags still packed in another Central American country, he said he wants to seek asylum in Canada. Noting Trump and Bukele are allies, it's the only place in the hemisphere he thinks he will feel safe. 'Even here, I'm stuck behind bars,' he said, speaking from the home with barred windows where he's hiding. 'Exile is a prison.' ___ This story has been corrected to show Beltran investigated human trafficking, not drug trafficking. Solve the daily Crossword

El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself
El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself

The Hill

time19 hours ago

  • The Hill

El Salvador's new wave of political exiles say history is repeating itself

The fiercest voices of dissent against President Nayib Bukele have long feared a widespread crackdown. They weathered police raids on their homes, watched their friends being thrown into jail and jumped between safe houses so they can stay in El Salvador. Then they received a warning: Leave immediately. It's exile or prison. A combination of high-profile detentions, a new 'foreign agents' law, violent repression of peaceful protesters and the risk of imminent government detention has driven more than 100 political exiles to flee in recent months. The biggest exodus of journalists, lawyers, academics, environmentalists and human rights activists in years is a dark reminder of the nation's brutal civil war decades ago, when tens of thousands of people are believed to have escaped. Exiles who spoke to The Associated Press say they are scattered across Central America and Mexico with little more than backpacks and a lingering question of where they will end up. 'We're living through a moment where history is repeating itself,' said Ingrid Escobar, leader of the human rights legal group Socorro Juridico, who fled El Salvador with her two children. 'We've lost everything,' she said. Bukele's administration did not respond to requests for comment. 'We'll have to leave this country' Bukele, 43, has long been criticized for chipping away at democracy and committing human rights abuses in his war on gangs, in which the government waived constitutional rights and arrested more than 1% of El Salvador's population. Activists and journalists say for years they have faced mounting harassment and threats from the self-described 'world's coolest dictator,' whose tongue-in-cheek social media persona, bet on bitcoin and tough-on-crime discourse has gained him the adoration of many on the American right. Despite 60% of Salvadorans saying they fear publicly expressing political opinions in a recent poll, Bukele continues to enjoy soaring levels of approval because violence plummeted following his crackdown on gangs. Escobar — one of the populist's most vocal critics — said that as her organization challenged the government through thousands of legal cases, police constantly surveilled her family, showing up outside her mother's house and her 7- and 11-year-old children's schools. 'One day, we'll have to leave this country,' she told them, hoping it wasn't true. But things have reached an inflection point in recent months as Bukele grows emboldened by his alliance with President Donald Trump, namely due to the detention of hundreds of Venezuelan deportees in a Salvadoran prison made for gangs. In May, the El Salvador government passed a 'foreign agents' law resembling legislation used by Russia, Venezuela and Nicaragua to criminalize dissent by targeting organizations receiving overseas funding. Shortly after, police detained Ruth López, an anti-corruption lawyer at El Salvador's top human rights organization Cristosal, accusing her of corruption. López denies the allegations. As police escorted her in shackles to a June court appearance, she shouted: 'They're not going to silence me! I want a public trial!' Her detention came amid the arrests of several critics. On Thursday, Cristosal announced it had quietly evacuated all of its staff to Guatemala and Honduras, and shut down operations in El Salvador. 'The justice system has been weaponized against us,' said Cristosal leader Noah Bullock. 'Nobody in El Salvador has any doubt that the government can detain whoever it wants and disappear them in prisons indefinitely.' 'If I stay, will I die?' Escobar soon received news that her name appears on a list with 11 other journalists and activists targeted for detention. Escobar, who was about to enter treatment for sarcoma, a rare form of cancer, worried that if she was thrown in prison, she wouldn't receive care. Around a third of hundreds of deaths in prisons under Bukele were caused by a lack of medical attention. 'I asked myself one question: 'If I stay, will I die?'' she said. In June, she and her children slipped across the Guatemala border, flew to the U.S. and then to another Latin American country. She looks over her shoulder every day. Many of the exiles asked AP to not disclose their locations, fearing they could be tracked down. Others who have fled were too scared to speak on the record, even anonymously. A couple flees Journalist Mónica Rodríguez, 40, and her husband, 37-year-old activist Steve Magaña, are in exile. They were among a handful of people who documented on video Salvadoran police violently quashing a peaceful demonstration. Hundreds of protesters, including children and elderly people, wanted the president to stop the eviction of their rural community on a road near his house. 'It contradicted Bukele's discourse,' Rodríguez said. 'They were repressing people and we were the ones evidencing it.' Bukele later posted on the social platform X that the community had been 'manipulated' by NGOs and journalists, then announced the foreign agents law. Soon came the arrests and more people fled the country. Rodríguez said police showed photos of her and her husband to the community, asking where they were. Rodríguez and Magaña were already scared after masked police officers raided their home months earlier, seizing computers, cellphones, Magaña's credit cards and hard drives containing Rodríguez's reporting materials. The couple went into hiding, hopping between four safe houses in San Salvador before leaving the country. In June, the Association of Journalists in El Salvador reported that at least 40 journalists fled the country in a matter of weeks. 'We've lost it all' For some, including 55-year-old Jorge Beltrán, a reporter who served in the Salvadoran military during the civil war, it's a case of déjà vu. Between 1979 and 1992, war raged between a repressive, U.S.-backed government and leftist guerrillas. While there's no universally agreed upon number, historians believe tens of thousands of political exiles fled, including opposition leaders, journalists and human rights activists. The U.N. estimates around 1 million people left the country over the course of the war. 'I never thought I'd live through something like that again,' Beltrán said. 'The armed conflict paved the way for a fledgling democracy we enjoyed for a few years. … Something was achieved. And now we've lost it all.' The journalist investigating corruption in El Salvador for the newspaper El Diario de Hoy said he pushed back against legal attacks before going into exile. Beltrán was sued by a business owner with close ties to the government over 'moral damages' for his investigation that uncovered evidence of corruption. He was ordered to pay $10 million by a Salvadoran court. Meanwhile, he said, officials constantly harassed him for not revealing his sources in stories about drug trafficking and continued forced disappearances. He eventually received a call from a government official warning that police might come for him. 'I recommend you leave the country. You're one of the 'objectives' they're looking to silence,' Beltrán said he was told. 'You can leave journalism, but they'll make you pay for what you already did.' He left El Salvador alone with two bags of medicine for high blood pressure and his war injuries, a book about government repression and two letters from his wife and daughter saying they hoped they would meet again one day. With bags still packed in another Central American country, he said he wants to seek asylum in Canada. Noting Trump and Bukele are allies, it's the only place in the hemisphere he thinks he will feel safe. 'Even here, I'm stuck behind bars,' he said, speaking from the home with barred windows where he's hiding. 'Exile is a prison.'

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into a world of global content with local flavor? Download Daily8 app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store