Searching for Devils at CECOT

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.

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 Module 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.

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.

Searching for Devils at CECOT

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