CECOT: The Human Cost of Security

The lack of clarity surrounding inmate conditions suggests the worst.

The Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, or CECOT, has been at the center of discussion in El Salvador since 2022, but has recently come to light in America following the administration’s increased deportation efforts. CECOT was created as part of President Nayib Bukele’s widespread crackdown on gang violence, and as of last year contains an estimated population of 15,000 to 40,000 inmates. Officials and data analysts have praised the confinement center’s efficacy, but after the Trump administration sent roughly 200 alleged Venezuelan and Salvadoran criminals to CECOT, the prison drew increased attention, falling under scrutiny by foreign and domestic press for its cruel conditions.

In 2020, El Salvador was rifewith gang violence. Roughly 60,000 gang members and 400,000 affiliates were operating within the country, and the country had one of the highest homicide rates in the country at 103 homicides per 100,000 people. Thus, Bukele devised a plan to cut down on crime rates, dubbing it the Territorial Control Plan. At the head of this plan was CECOT. To some surprise, this aggressive strategy seemed to work. El Salvador’s homicide rate decreased by a whopping 63% in just a year, marking a turning point in overall safety. The International Crisis Group, however, refuted claims by Bukele that the decrease was a result of the Territorial Control Plan, instead citing communications between gangs and the government. This counter-claim was further backed by the U.S. Treasury Department’s similar claims of government negotiation.

Bukele’s crackdown did something, despite specifics of government intervention being unknown. Much of the speculation behind CECOT’s operation stems from El Salvador’s general lack of transparency around the prison. For one, it seems that nobody truly knows how many inmates are being housed. In April of this year, prison director Belarmino García was asked for a specific number of inmates. He declined to give a direct answer, stating that the 2024 count of roughly 14,000 was outdated, and that the current number neared capacity at 40,000. This opaque answer, coupled with relatively unknown criteria for admittance and sentences ranging from centuries to pending convictions, results in the unclear image of CECOT that we have today.

What we do know about CECOT is how the inmates are treated. As a standard, prisoners are held in their cells at all times except for 30 minutes of exercise, online court hearings, Bible study, or solitary confinement. Furthermore, the government has stated intention to not release any prisoner from CECOT and barred inmates from any rehabilitation programs. Inside their cells, inmates undergo an experience that wholly violates the Red Cross’ international standard of detention; inmates are provided 0.6 meters of space on average, nearly 3 meters less than the recommended minimum. When BBC asked García himself, he claimed that “where you can fit 10 [prisoners], you can fit 20 [prisoners in CECOT].” On an individual level, Kilmar Abrego Garcia, now known for being wrongfully deported by the U.S. to CECOT, attested to the abhorrent treatment he faced. He claims that he and others were met with beatings, inadequate food, and even psychological torture. Abrego Garcia describes one instance where he and 20 other inmates were made to kneel from 9 P.M. to 6 A.M.

Despite CECOT’s apparent efficiency in halting gang violence in El Salvador, both personal statements and major investigations find corruption and malpractice, often going as for as torture. The fact of the matter is that Nayib Bukele is fighting the fire of gang violence by drowning his country in human rights abuses. As you read this article, up to 40,000 real people are packed like sardines into a concrete box with no possibility of rehabilitation or release. Even if claims that the Territorial Control Plan is the catalyst for El Salvador’s decreased crime rate are true, they neglect the lives of inmates. 

Vincent Petti ‘27