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Searching for Devils at CECOT
Searching for Devils at CECOT

Yahoo

timea day ago

  • Politics
  • Yahoo

Searching for Devils at CECOT

CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Credit - Philip Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Contact us at letters@

Loading... Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. On June 10, 2024, more than 2,000 inmates, primarily convicted gang members, were transferred from Izalco prison to CECOT. Prior to the transfer, inmates were positioned on the ground in interlocking formations under heavy guard while awaiting their buses. Philip Holsinger A guard handcuffs an inmate through the bars of Module 7 at CECOT before escorting him to meet a visiting U.S. delegation. This cell block primarily houses Salvadoran nationals accused of gang affiliations. Philip Holsinger Inmates in Cell Block 7 stand silently at attention or sit on steel racks, adhering to the prison's strict behavioral protocols. Philip Holsinger Guards in riot gear stand on the road between Modules 7 and 8 during the U.S. congressional delegation's visit to CECOT on May 9. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. U.S. Rep. Andy Ogles (R-Tenn.) walks past Venezuelan detainees during a May 9 tour of CECOT. Confined to Module 8, these detainees—many deported from the U.S. under the Alien Enemies Act—expressed themselves openly, a stark contrast to the enforced silence in other blocks. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. Venezuelan detainees in Module 8 gesture and shout from behind bars during the congressional delegation's tour. Philip Holsinger I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Philip Holsinger Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender
Loading... Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. On June 10, 2024, more than 2,000 inmates, primarily convicted gang members, were transferred from Izalco prison to CECOT. Prior to the transfer, inmates were positioned on the ground in interlocking formations under heavy guard while awaiting their buses. Philip Holsinger A guard handcuffs an inmate through the bars of Module 7 at CECOT before escorting him to meet a visiting U.S. delegation. This cell block primarily houses Salvadoran nationals accused of gang affiliations. Philip Holsinger Inmates in Cell Block 7 stand silently at attention or sit on steel racks, adhering to the prison's strict behavioral protocols. Philip Holsinger Guards in riot gear stand on the road between Modules 7 and 8 during the U.S. congressional delegation's visit to CECOT on May 9. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. U.S. Rep. Andy Ogles (R-Tenn.) walks past Venezuelan detainees during a May 9 tour of CECOT. Confined to Module 8, these detainees—many deported from the U.S. under the Alien Enemies Act—expressed themselves openly, a stark contrast to the enforced silence in other blocks. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. Venezuelan detainees in Module 8 gesture and shout from behind bars during the congressional delegation's tour. Philip Holsinger I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Philip Holsinger Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender

Time​ Magazine

time2 days ago

  • Politics
  • Time​ Magazine

Loading... Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. On June 10, 2024, more than 2,000 inmates, primarily convicted gang members, were transferred from Izalco prison to CECOT. Prior to the transfer, inmates were positioned on the ground in interlocking formations under heavy guard while awaiting their buses. Philip Holsinger A guard handcuffs an inmate through the bars of Module 7 at CECOT before escorting him to meet a visiting U.S. delegation. This cell block primarily houses Salvadoran nationals accused of gang affiliations. Philip Holsinger Inmates in Cell Block 7 stand silently at attention or sit on steel racks, adhering to the prison's strict behavioral protocols. Philip Holsinger Guards in riot gear stand on the road between Modules 7 and 8 during the U.S. congressional delegation's visit to CECOT on May 9. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. U.S. Rep. Andy Ogles (R-Tenn.) walks past Venezuelan detainees during a May 9 tour of CECOT. Confined to Module 8, these detainees—many deported from the U.S. under the Alien Enemies Act—expressed themselves openly, a stark contrast to the enforced silence in other blocks. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. Venezuelan detainees in Module 8 gesture and shout from behind bars during the congressional delegation's tour. Philip Holsinger I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Philip Holsinger Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender

Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender

Photojournalist witnesses Venezuelan migrants' arrival in El Salvador: "They had no idea what was coming"
Photojournalist witnesses Venezuelan migrants' arrival in El Salvador: "They had no idea what was coming"

CBS News

time07-04-2025

  • Politics
  • CBS News

Photojournalist witnesses Venezuelan migrants' arrival in El Salvador: "They had no idea what was coming"

Three weeks ago, photojournalist Philip Holsinger stood on a tarmac in El Salvador waiting for three planes to arrive, cameras slung across his body. He was told the planes were carrying Venezuelan migrants from the United States who would become inmates at the Terrorism Confinement Center, a notorious prison in El Salvador also known as CECOT. As the Venezuelans emerged from the door to make their way down the gangplank, their faces dropped. "They're greeted by this scene, a sea of black-clad, masked police in riot gear," Holsinger told 60 Minutes Overtime. "I've looked through my lens at many types of faces, laughing, crying, terrified, angry… they had no idea what was coming." A 60 Minutes report this week found that a majority of the Venezuelans who arrived in El Salvador that day have no apparent criminal record. In response to these findings, a Department of Homeland Security spokeswoman told 60 Minutes that many of those without criminal records "are actually terrorists, human rights abusers, gangsters, and more. They just don't have a rap sheet in the U.S." Holsinger has spent over a year in El Salvador, documenting the government's controversial crackdown on violent gangs like MS-13 and Barrio 18. In March 2022, Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele declared a "state of emergency" to address gang violence in the country. Then, a "state of exception" was approved by the Salvadoran legislature that suspended certain constitutional freedoms, allowing law enforcement to arrest and prosecute tens of thousands of people with alleged, or even suspected, gang ties. It's been renewed every month since. The Salvadoran government claims over 85,000 arrests have been made under the state of exception. The country, once known as the "murder capital of the world," closed 2024 with a record low of 114 homicides, according to their government statistics. Human rights groups have heavily criticized the government's approach to gang violence, saying arrests are often made with little evidence, and without a fair and speedy trial. Since 2022, the prison population in El Salvador has exploded. The current occupancy rate is nearly 163%, according to World Prison Brief. Holsinger has photographed and interviewed inmates, including members of MS-13, in Salvadoran prisons, like Izalco Prison. But the most notorious prison he's visited by far is CECOT. Designed to house a population of over 40,000 people, it is known for its strict rules and spartan living conditions. "Life in the cell, in CECOT, is the definition of austerity," Holsinger told Overtime. "There are no books. There's no television… zero outside communication. Nothing goes out. Nothing comes in. There's 24-hour surveillance." Inmates sleep on metal slabs, with no pillows or blankets. Unsolicited talking and eye contact with guards is generally prohibited, Holsinger said. "When we walked into the cell block, I was shocked by the silence… it's like a church," Holsinger said. "It got under my skin," Holsinger said. "Because it means something… Does it mean people are being treated bad, and they're quiet, or does it mean they just got order?" When the Venezuelans deported from the U.S. arrived in El Salvador, officers used a standard procedure for CECOT inmates, grabbing them by the neck and pushing their bodies downward, as they walked them briskly toward the bus. "They move them fast and hard. And they intentionally want them to feel that they're powerless," Holsinger told Overtime. A Venezuelan man seated in one of the buses looked over at Holsinger's camera for a moment. "When the guard noticed it, the guard grabs him by his hair and shoves his head back down," Holsinger told Overtime. "That's the beginning of their lesson… which is total powerlessness." After leaving the buses at the prison's entrance, the Venezuelans were brought into a room where teams of men buzzed their hair off. Guards shouted commands to speed up the process, and slapped some of the Venezuelans who spoke up. "The guards are [saying] 'Fast! Fast! Fast!'" Holsinger said. Staring at a black-and-white photograph of a man with far-away eyes having his head shaved, Holsinger recalled what he was thinking when he took his picture. "He may be a criminal. He may be innocent. He may be a father. I don't know his story at all. But I know his eyes," he said. "He didn't fight… like, hopelessness. [He] just gave in." Another man who caught Holsinger's attention shouted "I'm innocent" and "I'm gay," and was crying as his head was shaved. 60 Minutes has now identified that man as Andry Hernandez Romero. He and the other Venezuelans were deported from the U.S. after President Trump invoked the Alien Enemies Act, claiming the men were members of Tren de Aragua, a Venezuelan gang. Romero's lawyers told 60 Minutes that he is a 31-year-old gay makeup artist with no criminal record in the United States or Venezuela. "He was being slapped every time he would speak up… he started praying and calling out, literally crying for his mother," Holsinger told Overtime. "His crying out for his mother really, really touched me." Romero and the other Venezuelans were ordered to strip naked and put on the CECOT uniform: a white shirt, white shorts and white rubber slippers. Then they were forced to kneel in a line with their hands cuffed behind their backs, their bodies stacked against each other. "This is a standard body posture that anybody in CECOT… will be trained in," Holsinger explained. Finally, the men were pushed to the ground, their faces pressed to the concrete floor. As Holsinger snapped the last few photographs, he felt that he had just watched the Venezuelan men become "ghosts." "They've been stripped of their hair and their clothes… It's like your life just ceased to exist. You're just a person in white clothes now," Holsinger said. "And it was a sense of watching people disappear." The video above was produced by Will Croxton. It was edited by Sarah Shafer.

Trump resurrects George W. Bush's rendition regime
Trump resurrects George W. Bush's rendition regime

Yahoo

time24-03-2025

  • Politics
  • Yahoo

Trump resurrects George W. Bush's rendition regime

Among all the political atrocities committed by the second Trump administration — and there are many — perhaps the most egregious, so far, is the plane loads of Venezuelan men sent to an infamous mega-prison in El Salvador called the Center for Terrorism Confinement (aka Cecot) in direct contravention of a federal judge's order. The men have disappeared into the prison and no one is even sure who all of them are much less if they are actually members of the Venezuelan Tren de Aragua gang that President Trump claims has "invaded" the United States. But reports are starting to emerge that this was a sloppy operation that swept up some innocent people. One can only imagine what's happening to them in that dystopian hellhole of a prison. Over the weekend TIME published a first-person account by photojournalist Philip Holsinger of the Venezuelans' arrival and processing in El Salvador the week before. We had seen the grotesque propaganda video produced by the Salvadoran government (and celebrated by the White House) but this is the first time we've heard about their treatment from someone who was on the ground. It is harrowing, to say the least. The intake began with slaps. One young man sobbed when a guard pushed him to the floor. He said, 'I'm not a gang member. I'm gay. I'm a barber.' I believed him. But maybe it's only because he didn't look like what I had expected—he wasn't a tattooed men were pulled from the buses so fast the guards couldn't keep pace. Chained at their ankles and wrists, they stumbled and fell, some guards falling to the ground with them. With each fall came a kick, a slap, a shove. The guards grabbed necks and pushed bodies into the sides of the buses as they forced the detainees forward. There was no blood, but the violence had rhythm, like a theater of fear. Inside the intake room, a sea of trustees descended on the men with electric shavers, stripping heads of hair with haste. The guy who claimed to be a barber began to whimper, folding his hands in prayer as his hair fell. He was slapped. The man asked for his mother, then buried his face in his chained hands and cried as he was slapped again. There is good evidence that this young man is who he says, a barber and make-up artist from Texas, not a gang member. How he got caught up in this we have no idea. I cannot even imagine what he's going through in this prison full of hardcore gang members. It was not entirely unexpected. Trump has reportedly been angry at the pace of deportations and told his henchmen to speed it up. By invoking the Alien Enemies Act of 1789, the very rarely used wartime power to remove non-citizens without following the usual immigration laws, Trump was able to finally get the satisfaction he'd been desperate to achieve. The case is currently being heard in federal court, where the judge is beside himself at the government's uncooperative behavior. It will almost certainly end up before the Supreme Court before too long. It shocks the conscience to see America completely abandoning any semblance of due process to kidnap people and take them to another country to be dealt with by governments that have no respect for human rights. But let's be honest. It's not the first time, and I'm not talking about the Palmer raids in WWI or the Japanese Internment in WWII, both of which were shameful episodes in which the president used this obscure wartime power to detain, imprison and deport people based solely on their ancestry or national origin under the suspicion that they might commit sabotage or espionage. America perpetrated something this ugly in this century, only 20 years ago. During the presidency of George W. Bush, the U.S. government kidnapped hundreds of people around the world and sent them to black sites in foreign countries where they were tortured by the CIA. They were also sent to countries notorious for their lack of human rights where they were also tortured. It was called "Extraordinary Rendition" and what was so extraordinary about it was that it required no due process. Rendition has been used since the 1880s to grab suspected criminals on foreign soil to bring them to America to stand trial. Grabbing them to torture them (or what they euphemistically called "enhanced interrogation") in secret prisons in ways that were beyond our imaginations was on a whole other level. We know what we know about all this from great reporting in the media and some dogged investigations by the U.S. Congress. (They even made a movie about the Senate investigation starring Annette Bening and Adam Driver.) But the country has never seen the full Senate report, only the summary which was pretty damning, because the White House under Barack Obama, Donald Trump and Joe Biden all refused to release it. I think that says something very disturbing about what must be in it. The torture regime under the Bush administration was one of the most shameful moments in our history. We've let it go down the memory hole as we do with virtually everything we hate about ourselves. But that cruel, unnecessary and counterproductive set of policies along with Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib and all the rest of the gruesome acts of overkill committed in the wake of 9/11 set the table for what Donald Trump is doing today. However, while the Bush policies were barbaric and un-American, they were in response to an actual attack on the United States. The reaction was insanely excessive and motivated by some longstanding policy goals that had little to do with the attack but the casus belli wasn't conjured up out of thin air. On the other hand, Trump's rationale for dredging up wartime powers to render foreigners to a foreign prison notorious for its inhumane treatment is completely made up. Crime is down. Illegal immigration is down. To the extent that these Venezuelan gang members are dangerous criminals (assuming they are gang members at all) it's nothing that can't be dealt with through the American justice system. Trump's immigration crisis is, and always has been, a campaign strategy to scratch the ids of his racist base. They are all too happy to believe it and he and his GOP accomplices are all too happy to take advantage of that to seize more and more power. It's as if Hitler made up the fact that the Reichstag was on fire and his Nazi followers all nodded their heads and insisted they smelled the smoke. 20 years ago the U.S. government completely lost its bearings and began the process of finally destroying our society's belief that while it often fails, America still believed in the ideals set forth in the founding documents. It became a lot harder to accept our "shining city on a hill" myth once we saw how our powerful country discarded its values the minute we faced a serious threat. Now we don't even pretend anymore. The president simply proclaims that we have been invaded without any evidence at all and seizes the powers that come with that, all to give his followers the strongman spectacle he promised.

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