Walk through the doors of the Terrorism Confinement Center, or CECOT, and the first thing that hits you isn't just the heat. It’s the silence. For a facility designed to hold 40,000 people, the lack of noise is eerie. This is the place the world calls the El Salvador concentration camp, a massive concrete fortress carved into the volcanic soil of Tecoluca. It is the centerpiece of President Nayib Bukele’s "War on Gangs." Depending on who you ask, it’s either a miracle of modern security or a human rights catastrophe of historic proportions.
The images are everywhere. Thousands of men with shaved heads, covered in intricate MS-13 and Barrio 18 tattoos, crouching in white shorts. No shoes. No shirts. No windows. It looks like a scene from a dystopian film, but for El Salvador, it’s the new normal. For decades, this country was the murder capital of the world. Gangs didn't just exist; they ruled. They taxed the bread man, the bus driver, and the grandmother selling pupusas. Then, in March 2022, after a weekend where 87 people were slaughtered, Bukele flipped a switch. He declared a "regime of exception," suspended constitutional rights, and started building.
The Reality of Life Inside CECOT
Is it a prison or a concentration camp? The terminology matters. Critics, including organizations like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, argue that the term El Salvador concentration camp fits because of the mass detentions without due process. Inside these walls, prisoners don't get visits. Not from mothers, not from wives, not from lawyers. They eat two meals a day—mostly beans and tortillas. They sleep on four-tier metal bunks with no mattresses. There are no pillows. There are no sheets.
It’s brutal. Honestly, it’s designed to be.
Public Works Minister Romeo Rodríguez once noted that the facility was built in just seven months. Think about the logistics of that. We’re talking about 166 hectares. The walls are 11 meters high, electrified with 15,000 volts. There are 19 guard towers. If you’re inside, you aren't getting out. There’s a specific kind of psychological pressure that comes from knowing you might never see the sun outside of a courtyard again. Prisoners spend most of their time in large communal cells, roughly 80 to 100 men per cage. They share two toilets and two sinks. They bathe in large stone basins.
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The Logistics of Mass Incarceration
The scale is hard to wrap your head around. El Salvador now has the highest incarceration rate in the world. Roughly 2% of the adult population is behind bars. To manage this, CECOT uses high-tech scanners for every person entering—even the guards. They have "intelligence" rooms to monitor every corner.
But here’s the thing: while the international community screams about rights, the local population is largely cheering. Polls consistently show Bukele with approval ratings north of 80 or 90 percent. Why? Because for the first time in thirty years, kids in San Salvador can play soccer in the street after dark. The "invisible borders" maintained by gangs have vanished. Businesses that used to pay 50% of their profits in "rent" to gang bangers are suddenly seeing their margins return. It’s a trade-off. People are trading the civil liberties of the few for the physical safety of the many.
Why People Call it a Concentration Camp
The label "concentration camp" usually gets thrown around when people are detained based on group identity rather than specific, proven crimes. Under the state of exception, the police don't need a warrant. They don't need to explain why they are arresting you. If you have a certain tattoo, you’re gone. If an anonymous tip says you’re a "collaborator," you’re gone.
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Cristosal, a leading human rights group in the region, has documented hundreds of cases of arbitrary detention. They’ve reported on deaths in custody—men who went in healthy and came out in a coffin, showing signs of torture or malnutrition. Some were just "guilty by association" or lived in the wrong neighborhood. These are the stories that don't make the government's glossy PR videos. There’s a guy named Nelson, for example—a simple laborer with no criminal record—who was swept up because a neighbor held a grudge. He spent months in a nightmare before being released. He’s one of the "lucky" ones.
The Economic Cost of the War on Gangs
It isn't cheap to run a fortress. While the government is tight-lipped about the exact daily cost per prisoner, experts estimate it’s straining the national budget. El Salvador has adopted Bitcoin as legal tender and is trying to brand itself as a tech hub, but the shadow of the El Salvador concentration camp looms over the economy.
Investment is a mixed bag. On one hand, safety attracts tourism. Surf City is booming. Foreigners are buying beachfront property because they no longer fear being kidnapped. On the other hand, institutional investors worry about the "rule of law." If a president can ignore the constitution to arrest gang members, what stops him from ignoring it to seize a bank account or a company?
What Most People Get Wrong
People think CECOT is the only prison. It's not. It’s just the one for the "homeboys"—the high-ranking gang members. There are dozens of other prisons like La Esperanza (Mariona) that are even more overcrowded. In those places, the conditions are arguably worse because they lack the "showcase" infrastructure of CECOT.
Another misconception: that the gangs are "gone." They aren't gone; they’re dormant or underground. Gangs are a social problem. They grow out of poverty, broken homes, and a lack of opportunity. You can lock up the current generation in an El Salvador concentration camp, but if you don't fix the schools or the jobs, the next generation will find a new way to rebel.
Navigating the Complexity
You have to look at both sides to really get it.
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- The Government View: This is a "surgical strike" against a cancer that was killing the country. You can't fight monsters with a bouquet of roses.
- The Human Rights View: This is a slippery slope to dictatorship. Today it’s gang members; tomorrow it’s journalists and political rivals.
- The Citizen View: I don't care about the "rights" of a guy who killed my son. I just want to be able to walk to the store without getting shot.
It's a messy, violent, and complicated reality. There is no easy answer.
Actionable Insights for Understanding the Situation
If you are following the developments in El Salvador or planning to visit, keep these points in mind:
- Monitor the State of Exception: The government renews the "regime of exception" every month. As long as this continues, normal legal protections are suspended. Watch for news on when—or if—this will ever end.
- Differentiate Between Prisons: Understand that CECOT is specifically for high-level gang targets. The legal experience for a common criminal or a political prisoner in El Salvador is different, though no less precarious.
- Check Local Sources: For a balanced view, read official government releases but cross-reference them with independent El Salvadoran outlets like El Faro or Revista Factum. They often provide the ground-level reporting that government PR skips.
- Understand the Travel Reality: For travelers, El Salvador is currently safer than it has been in decades. However, stay informed about the areas near prisons like Tecoluca, as security cordons are strict and photography of these facilities is often prohibited and can lead to detention.
- Look for Judicial Reform: The real test of the "Bukele Model" isn't the prison itself, but whether the country can build a judicial system capable of processing 70,000+ detainees fairly. Until that happens, the El Salvador concentration camp remains a symbol of absolute state power.
The situation is evolving. What started as a temporary emergency measure has become a permanent fixture of El Salvadoran life. Whether CECOT eventually becomes a relic of a dark time or the blueprint for security across Latin America remains to be seen. One thing is certain: the world is watching, and the people of El Salvador are finally sleeping without one eye open, regardless of the cost paid in the cells of Tecoluca.