In a remote valley in El Salvador, five miles south of the summit of San Vicente volcano, behind rows of electrified fences and concrete walls, lies the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT)—a fortress built for mass incarceration. It is President Nayib Bukele’s centerpiece in a war against gangs, but it has quickly become something more disturbing: a monument to state control, and a warning to the world.
CECOT houses up to 40,000 inmates. Most are suspected members of MS-13 and unlucky bystanders swept up in a relentless crackdown. Due process is optional here. Many were arrested without warrants. Some were reported by neighbors. Some haven’t been seen again.
The prison is pure concrete and steel. No visitors. No lawyers. Lights never go out. Food is minimal. There are no programs for education or rehabilitation—because rehabilitation isn’t the goal. Control is.
Bukele’s government calls it order. Human rights groups call it something else: a legal black hole. Over 100 people have died in state custody since the emergency measures began in 2022. Allegations of torture and starvation persist.
And yet, the model is spreading. Far-right leaders worldwide are hailing CECOT as a “success story.” In the U.S., recent deportations of migrants—some wrongly accused of gang affiliation—have ended with their transfer to this prison. One such case, Kilmar Abrego Garcia, is now under scrutiny in U.S. federal court, after he was deported in violation of a judge’s order.
What we are witnessing isn’t just mass incarceration. It’s the calculated erasure of individuals under the guise of security.
CECOT isn’t the future. It’s a warning.
