The 19-year-old Carlos Daniel Ter still recalls what a prison warden said to him upon his arrival in CECOT, El Salvador’s mega-prison.
“He told us we were never going to leave this place,” Tern remembered.
This year, it was March. Ter was recently sent from an immigration detention facility in Texas to the infamous Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, or CECOT, a maximum-security facility designed to jail suspected Salvadoran gang members. The only way out of prison, according to El Salvador’s own justice minister, is “inside a coffin.”
The Trump administration transferred hundreds of Venezuelans to El Salvador, including Tern, using the rarely utilized 1798 Alien Enemies Act. They were falsely accused of belonging to the Venezuelan gang, Tren de Aragua. The U.S. government prevented the individuals it deported from contacting their attorneys or relatives and concealed their names for almost four months.
Then, just over a week ago, Ter was abruptly freed as part of a prisoner swap between the United States and Venezuela, along with more than 250 other Venezuelan detainees.
“I thought this was going to be the last experience of my life,” Tern informed NPR while in Caracas. “I thought I was going to die there.”
“Hell on earth”
Tern and two other former inmates have been interviewed by NPR regarding their experiences at CECOT since their release. They talked about being refused enough food, made to endure cruel conditions, and being the targets of violence and, in certain cases, sexual abuse by prison guards.
Since ICE originally grabbed Tern up from his Texas home in February, NPR has been following his story. Through the Biden-era CBP One program, he had lawfully entered the United States. He denies any gang involvement and has no criminal history in the United States. His only prior infractions were being charged with gun possession and small-scale narcotics possession or transportation while still a teenager in Chile.
Similar to Ter, the other Venezuelans who were moved from the United States to El Salvador have denied any connection to the Tren de Aragua.
Despite identifying as a devout man, Tern claimed that his time at CECOT was really difficult.
“I felt really sad I spent my birthday there and it was hard to not get a call from my family,” he stated.
He and the other inmates in CECOT were hardly ever allowed to leave their cells. Rice, tortillas, and beans made up the majority of the meal. Their cell toilets were frequently clogged. In addition, despite the hot and muggy weather, there was no air conditioning.
The only water available to prisoners for bathing was pumped into two cement tanks that were integrated into their cells. But just once every day, at a time determined by the guards in the prison. The toilet and shower sections were not divided from the remainder of the cell by any walls.
Without mattresses, blankets, or pillows, the inmates slept on metal planks set up like bunk beds. Tern claims that for the entire four months, he slept in a sitting position.
However, Tern and the others claim that the guards’ use of violence against them was the worst aspect.
One of the inmates, Andry Hernandez, who was also freed a little more than a week ago, told NPR that guards frequently struck inmates with batons in the hallway or carried them to a tiny, windowless cell called “La Isla,” or “The Island,” where the severity of the abuse was considerably worse.
Hernandez, 32, claims that inmates would be hauled from their cells if they complained about their living conditions, bathed outside of the allotted time, or even made excessive noise.
Hernandez, an out gay man, claimed that once the guards took him to “La Isla” after they saw him taking a bucket bath outside of the allotted time.
He claimed that three mask-wearing guards beat him. was made to engage in oral intercourse with one of the guards. He was hauled back to his cell after a few hours.
“CECOT was hell on Earth,” Hernandez told NPR from Capacho, Venezuela, where he is currently back with his family.
“Condemned for life.”
CECOT, which was established in January 2023 as part of President Nayib Bukele’s anti-gang campaign, has effectively shielded itself from outside scrutiny thanks to well-produced government videos and staged photo ops with visiting dignitaries, such as U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem. The Venezuelans who were freed last week are perhaps of the first ex-offenders to talk openly about their experiences there.
The guys NPR spoke with claimed that the only publications available at CECOT were Bibles, and that the only times inmates were permitted to leave their cells were to play soccer in the hallway or take part in prayer sessions conducted by an evangelical pastor who was also a prisoner. Hernandez claimed that inmates kept themselves occupied by conversing or by using pieces they had formed from the lunchtime tortillas to play parchis or dominoes.
Hernandez stated, “The guards wanted us to be in total silence.” “But for us that was very difficult, because by nature we Venezuelans are a happy people, who are accustomed to joking around, and screaming, even in dire conditions.”
According to Andres Morales, a prisoner from the western Venezuelan town of San Antonio, the beatings started as soon as the Venezuelans entered the facility, he told NPR. Protectors informed him that he was “condemned for life.”
According to Morales, during the first month in CECOT, the Venezuelan inmates staged a three-day hunger strike in which they unsuccessfully called for more information about their cases and contact with their family. A few days later, he claims, the inmates grew increasingly desperate and carried out a “blood strike.”
Hernandez and Tern both supported Morales’ story.
“Some of the prisoners removed clamps from the cell’s piping and used them to cut themselves,” Hernandez stated to NPR. Although he denied taking part in the demonstration, he detailed how other prisoners penned “SOS” letters and splashed blood on the walls.
“We were treated like bargaining chips”
After claiming that the Venezuelan men were part of the Tren de Aragua gang, the Trump administration paid El Salvador $6 million to house them.
The men’s particular accusations were not addressed by the Department of Homeland Security. Rather, DHS Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin reiterated the allegation that they were Tren de Aragua gang members without offering any supporting documentation.
In an email to NPR, McLaughlin stated, “Once again, the media is falling all over themselves to defend criminal illegal gang members.” “We hear far too much about gang members and criminals’ false sob stories and not enough about their victims.”
NPR reached out to an El Salvadorian government official, but they did not comment on any of the accusations.
The beatings and some of the other conditions that the Venezuelan prisoners described are considered to be torture, according to Noah Bullock, executive director of Crissal, a Salvadoran human rights organization. He also said that by transporting the Venezuelan prisoners to El Salvador without informing their families or attorneys, U.S. and Salvadoran authorities most likely committed an act of forced disappearance.
“These are people who never had a trial, who were never convicted of anything, and were sent to a third country to be put into a maximum security prison indefinitely.” “I said,” Bullock said. “Just on those grounds, you have clear due process violations.”
Cristosal conducted background checks on 160 of the 252 Venezuelans sent to El Salvador and also interviewed their families. Less than 10%, according to the group, had criminal histories.
Bullock said around 400 prisoners have died in Salvadoran custody since March 2022, when President Nayib Bukele declared a state of exception that suspended key due process rights. Under the measure, authorities can hold suspects for months without disclosing their whereabouts or allowing contact with lawyers or family.
“We were treated like bargaining chips,” Hernandez said. “I don’t understand why Bukele had to offer his prisons, to kidnap migrants that had never set foot in his country.”
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