When the cops arrived at a party in Cantón la Estancia, a tiny hamlet in the shadow of the San Miguel volcano, Walter Josué Huete Alvarado didn’t think he had any reason to worry. He had a minor infraction on his criminal record — a DUI when he was a teenager — but that shouldn’t matter in El Salvador. It happened in the United States, where he is a citizen. Yet Alvarado’s U.S. passport didn’t deter Salvadoran police from dragging him away, pointing to the tattoos on his hands and claiming he was a member of MS-13.
It was May 2023, the third year of Joe Biden’s presidency. Alvarado, his relatives and legal counsel told The Intercept, is still incarcerated in El Salvador.
Two years before the second Trump administration targeted Kilmar Ábrego García over his tattoos and sent him to a notorious Salvadoran prison, the Biden State Department was made aware of Alvarado’s detention — and, for reasons of diplomacy and optics, did nothing. Today, the world has seen the viral images of men lined up at El Salvador’s Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, or CECOT — heads shaved, crammed front-to-back and forced to straddle each other — as a result of Donald Trump’s brutal deportation regime. But according to lawyer Jorge Palacios, the total number of U.S. citizens and residents detained in El Salvador’s less prominent prisons and jails is unknown.
Palacios, who brought Alvarado’s case before the United Nations, said that members of his group, Socorro Jurídico Humanitario, “have had people come to them saying their detained relatives are U.S. citizens who were visiting,” as was the case with Alvarado. Families often lose touch with their loved ones after their arrests, so “exact details are limited.”
In Alvarado’s case, a Salvadoran police report, testimony from two of his closest relatives, and insight from legal experts offer a relatively clear picture of what happened. At the police station in Moncagua, officers disregarded his American citizenship and stomped on his passport, telling him it was worthless. Alvarado had a tattoo of the letters “L.A.” — the city of his birth — but officers insisted it represented the city where MS-13 was formed. A “W” — his first initial — was actually an inverted “M,” they said, and a dollar sign was an obscured “S.”
The police report says Alvarado’s tattoos were “ambiguous, and there is no documentary or evidentiary support indicating that Mr. Huete Alvarado belongs to any gang, organization, or structure involved in the commission of criminal acts.” It was determined that “the police procedure may have been dysfunctional due to the lack of certainty regarding the individual’s belonging to or links with gangs.”
Alvarado has been shuffled between a handful of prisons and penal institutions in the nearly three years since then, never receiving a trial. His situation is in many ways exceptional, given his nationality, but it reflects the broader crisis facing countless families in El Salvador struggling to understand their loved ones’ perpetual, often inexplicable detentions. As similar models of criminalization are being rolled out across Latin America, Alvarado’s case may offer a preview of things to come.
When Alvarado was detained, the country of his birth was led by a Biden presidency that had, from the beginning, pitched its commitment to “upholding universal rights” as the “grounding wire of our global policy, our global power.” But since the Biden administration neglected to intervene in Alvarado’s detention, the authority with the best shot at saving him now is the second Trump administration, ideologically aligned with El Salvador’s reactionary leadership and its sweeping gang crackdown. Now, the Salvadoran regime that has effectively disappeared thousands into an opaque network of prisons without trials is more emboldened than ever.
Alvarado’s family was initially supportive of Nayib Bukele, the bearded, grinning, bitcoin-boosting millennial and self-described dictator who rose to power the first time Trump was in office and has held onto it, despite a Salvadoran constitutional prohibition, into a second consecutive term. Murder was declining when Bukele became president in 2019, but many Salvadorans still felt trapped by widespread gang violence and drug trafficking. Bukele, like his predecessors, at first brokered a clandestine truce with gang leaders — providing “financial incentive” to artificially reduce the number of homicides.
The pact fell apart in early 2022, and murders hit a 30-year high in a single day. Bukele enacted his “state of exception,” which allowed his government to suspend constitutional rights for 30 days, paving the way for an unfettered war on organized crime. Bukele and his governing Nuevas Ideas party have renewed the suspension 39 times.
El Salvador now has the highest incarceration rate in the world. Bukele’s government has arrested more than 90,000 Salvadorans, close to 2 percent of the population, including thousands of minors. Human rights experts and lawyers estimate that as many as half of everyone detained under the state of exception have no known gang connections. Prisons are overflowing, with the cumulative system operating at over 300 percent capacity.
By some standards, El Salvador is now considered one of the safest countries in Latin America. Bukele touts record lows in homicide and last year claimed 861 consecutive days without a murder — though, as the Washington Office on Latin America noted, the tally did not include the more than 427 people who have died in custody since the state of exception was decreed. Voters, in turn, have expressed overwhelming support: Bukele had an 85 percent approval rating as of June 2025.
Others, like Alvarado’s family — with members in both El Salvador and the U.S. — soured on the regime once their relatives disappeared under the state of exception.
The Biden administration soured on Bukele, too. Initial optimism that the young right-wing leader would bring much-needed reform soon turned to criticism of El Salvador’s “democratic backsliding.” In May 2021, then-Vice President Kamala Harris denounced Bukele’s illegal removal of the country’s attorney general and the dismissal of five of its Supreme Court judges who had tried to stop him from overriding the constitution. The State Department sanctioned several members of Bukele’s inner circle for bribery and undermining democratic processes, and the Treasury Department sanctioned two more for their role in the secret gang truce.
Bukele came into conflict with the interim U.S. ambassador to El Salvador, Jean Manes, claiming on social media that Manes had tried to pressure him into freeing a politician charged with corruption. In November 2021, Manes temporarily suspended diplomatic relations with El Salvador.
Yet Alvarado’s case didn’t get the treatment of a high-profile American detained by an authoritarian pariah state, like Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich, imprisoned in Russia just two months before Alvarado traveled to El Salvador. By May 2023, the Biden State Department had decided that Bukele’s mercurial nature and tendency to lash out warranted a softer touch. No longer would they scold out in the open. Instead, according to a former State Department official familiar with the matter, the National Security Council emphasized back-channeling over public condemnation.
State Department apparatchiks hoped that smoothing relations with Bukele would help them maintain El Salvador’s cooperation on immigration enforcement and counternarcotics, an official who worked under the Biden administration explained to The Intercept, and that an impending loan from the International Monetary Fund would trigger more transparency. The Bukele administration maintained that the state of exception would at some vague point be wound down, and Manes’s replacement, William H. Duncan, insisted on handling any concerns about the country’s punitive turn behind closed doors.
Duncan, per two former State Department employees who asked not to be named for fear of professional consequences, “was very difficult to work with.” He insisted on being the only point of contact to Bukele. Efforts by members of the State Department’s Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor and Bureau of Western Hemisphere Affairs, or WHA, to bring attention to Alvarado’s case proved ineffective. Duncan’s embassy was aware of the case, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about efforts to push for more visits from embassy legal counselors for Alvarado. Duncan shut down anyone who tried to push for any other lateral communication, “especially any criticism,” one of the State Department sources said.
These tactics would culminate in an almost subservient brand of appeasement. In June 2024, after Bukele had successfully run for a consecutive (and constitutionally prohibited) term as president, a robust delegation of Biden officials led by Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas — and flanked by Duncan and the WHA’s Assistant Secretary Brian Nichols — attended the Salvadoran strongman’s second inauguration. (Duncan and Nichols did not respond to The Intercept’s requests for comment.)
“During the visit, Secretary Mayorkas met with President Bukele to discuss the many cultural, and economic ties our two countries share and reaffirmed the mutual commitment to address our common challenges,” a DHS press briefing reads.
Alvarado had spent just over a year behind bars.
Alvarado’s absence has been especially difficult for his daughters. His stepdaughter “feels guilty,” said a relative, who requested anonymity for fear of targeting by the U.S. government. “At first it was really, really hard, because she was like, ‘I feel like it’s my fault.’” After getting support at school, she showed signs of improvement, the relative said, but “when she turned 15, she was like, ‘I don’t want to have anything, because Walter’s not here.’”
His youngest daughter was just 2 when her father was arrested. She has started asking if Alvarado has passed away.
Bukele’s army of internet trolls has mocked the family, expressing loyalty to a president they see as an effective leader against gang violence. When they posted about Alvarado’s detention, the family told The Intercept, they would be greeted by accusations that he was, in fact, a gangster who deserved to be punished.
The Salvadoran president’s popularity can be explained, in part, by previous administrations’ inability to reckon with the country’s post-war contradictions. El Salvador’s reconciliation process in the early 1990s, overseen by the United States and the ultra-conservative Alianza Republicana Nacionalista, or ARENA, party, paved the way for the selling of the country’s telecommunications, banking, and energy infrastructure off to the highest bidder and exported the country’s natural commodities through the use of cheap labor.
The austerity regime made prime breeding ground for an intricate network of organized crime in the country. The U.S. expelled Salvadoran refugees who had gotten caught up in Los Angeles drug trafficking scene, allowing La Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, to blossom in El Salvador’s urban centers. Successive governments implemented tough-on-crime policies dubbed mano dura, Spanish for “iron fist,” to no avail, and populist, left-wing politicians found it difficult to unravel this Gordian knot through redistributive politics alone.
“It was tough, but replacing gang violence with state violence is not the answer.”
“It’s perfectly understandable that people support Bukele because he resolved an issue that was really hurting people,” Vicki Gass, the executive director of the Latin America Working Group, told The Intercept. “You’re not making a lot of money. You get remittances from your dad living in the United States. It gets extorted. A friend of mine had his whole workshop and tools stolen. You know, his livelihood, right? It was tough, but replacing gang violence with state violence is not the answer.”
Boosting the image of state violence has become a useful propaganda tool of the Bukele government. The strategy is most clearly captured by CECOT, the state-of-the-art supermax prison where Ábrego García was sent last year. But it is only one of 24 prisons in the country.
Alvarado was first sent to the Centro Penal de Izalco, an older prison where detainees are fed a spartan diet and beating and medical neglect are common. These carceral facilities, where a majority of the individuals caught up in the state of exception have been sent, have been the site of hundreds of deaths from violence and lack of medical care. In 2024, Socorro Jurídico Humanitario reported that of the 235 deaths they had recorded in prisons like Izalco, 94 percent of those who died were not affiliated with any gangs.
According to the director of the Americas division of Human Rights Watch, “torture, ill-treatment, incommunicado detention, severe violations of due process and inhumane conditions” were rampant in Izalco.
Alvarado smuggled messages to his family through the U.S. embassy in El Salvador, saying he cried every night and that he could not stomach the food. He told his infant daughter to behave herself, and mentioned he was forced to sleep on the concrete floor in only his boxers. His family would send him food to supplement his nutrition, but he would report often not receiving the goods — reflecting a common practice in Salvadoran prisons, according to the Salvadoran human rights group Cristosal, which found that goods sent to the country’s detention centers are often diverted by prison staff.
After the Biden era cool-off period, Democrats are again incensed by “the world’s coolest dictator.” Maryland Sen. Chris Van Hollen made a personal trip to El Salvador to lay eyes on Ábrego García, who was a Maryland resident, and the party has lambasted the cruelty of so-called “third-country” deportations under Trump. Some have been pursuing their efforts since Biden was in power: In November 2023, a group of Democratic congress members petitioned the State Department to determine how many Americans had been detained under El Salvador’s state of exception. It remains unclear if they received a response.
Bukele, meanwhile, again renewed the decree in August that allows his government to detain those captured under the state of exception without trial. The tentative date for those hearings was pushed back to 2027.
Just four months into his incarceration, Alvarado became so ill that he was transferred to the Granja Penitenciaria de Rehabilitación de Zacatecoluca, a lower security facility just a 15-minute drive from CECOT. Since then, he’s been moved multiple times, most recently to the Centro Industrial de Cumplimiento de Penas y Rehabilitación, where the state holds many political and foreign prisoners. Primarily, the facility is a work camp for detainees who are considered free of any gang associations.
#American #Stuck #Salvadors #Prison #System #Biden