IRTF News

They said they were punished in a dark room called the island, where they were trampled, kicked and forced to kneel for hours.

One man said officers thrust his head into a tank of water to simulate drowning. 

Another said he was forced to perform oral sex on guards wearing hoods.

Others were shot by rubber bullets.

They said they were told by officials that they would die in the Salvadoran prison, that the world had forgotten them.

“‘You are all terrorists,’” Edwin Meléndez, 30, recalled being told by officers who added: “‘Terrorists must be treated like this.’”

When they could no longer take it, they held a hunger strike. They cut themselves, writing protest messages on sheets in blood.

One detainee, age 26, was so sick that he could not get out of bed, and other men had to feed him. Taken to the infirmary, he was beaten in front of medical personnel. A doctor told him:  “‘Resign yourself. It’s time for you to die.’”

To send the 252 Venezuelan men to prison in El Salvador —along with many Salvadoran nationals—in March of this year, Mr. Trump invoked the Alien Enemies Act, a sweeping, rarely used 18th-century law that allows for the expulsion of people from an invading nation.

In September, Mr. Trump, speaking at the United Nations General Assembly,  praised Salvadoran officials for “the successful and professional job they’ve done in receiving and jailing so many criminals that entered our country.”

The Trump administration has further dismantled legal protections for Honduran women fleeing gender-based violence. Recent U.S. immigration rulings have invalidated key “particular social group” (PSG) categories—such as “Honduran women unable to leave a relationship”—that previously allowed women to claim asylum based on gender persecution. These changes, effectively bar many victims of domestic and sexual violence from receiving asylum. The rulings ignore the deep links between private violence, organized crime, and state complicity in Honduras, which has the highest femicide rate in Latin America.

Venezuelan opposition leader María Corina Machado was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her work promoting democracy and human rights. However, her record and political alliances tell a different story. Machado has expressed support for U.S. military intervention in Venezuela, aligned herself with Trump, Netanyahu, and far-right groups in Europe, and used anti-migrant and nationalist rhetoric to advance her cause. Her positions raise questions about what kind of “peace” and “democracy” she represents, and how her leadership affects the broader Venezuelan struggle against dictatorship and foreign interference.

As ICE expands its use of A.I. surveillance tools from Palantir, Graphite, and Zignal Labs, scholar Austin Kocher warns that the U.S. is adopting “digital authoritarianism with American characteristics.” In his new article for Dialogues on Digital Society, Kocher argues that ICE’s tech-driven deportation machine mirrors tactics once seen only in China—raising urgent questions about power, accountability, and how far democracy can bend before it breaks.

As immigration raids sweep through Latino neighborhoods across the U.S. Southwest, Catholic and interfaith communities are stepping up as lifelines of faith and resistance. In Coachella, California, parishioners deliver food to immigrants too terrified to leave their homes. In Nogales, Mexico, nuns and volunteers cook daily meals for deportees. And in El Paso, faith groups pray outside federal buildings as they watch asylum seekers’ cases—most ending in denial.

While politicians defend the crackdown as “the Lord’s work,” church leaders are calling it what it is: a moral crisis. Pope Leo XIV has condemned mass deportations as “inhuman,” urging U.S. bishops to speak louder for compassion. Bishop Mark Seitz of El Paso and others have taken that call to heart, demanding solidarity and reminding the faithful of America’s founding ideals of justice and welcome.

Across border cities, fear runs deep—families skipping Mass, children too afraid to go to school, priests celebrating online to reach those in hiding. Yet amid raids, trauma, and despair, faith endures. From Texas to California, believers continue to feed, shelter, and stand with the persecuted, transforming prayer into quiet defiance against a system that criminalizes hope.

After President Bukele’s government repealed El Salvador’s historic mining ban, environmentalists fear a quiet return of metal mining—starting with the long-contested El Dorado gold project. Despite official silence, new companies are being registered, land deals linked to mining firms are surfacing, and military presence in affected communities is increasing. Activists report being watched and harassed, even as they continue to fight criminal charges seen as politically motivated. With worsening water shortages and contamination risks, many Salvadorans warn that reopening the mines threatens not only the environment but also their communities’ survival and democratic freedoms.

Eight years after police tore through her land, destroying her crops and home, Chela still cannot return to El Guayabo—the place she loves most and fears most. Her pain is shared by a community that has endured years of violence, evictions, and resistance in defense of their territory. But now, after more than a decade of struggle, El Guayabo’s wounds are finally being acknowledged: the community has been officially recognized as a subject of collective reparations under Colombia’s Victims’ Law.

This long-awaited recognition is more than a bureaucratic victory—it’s an act of memory and dignity. It affirms the suffering, resilience, and courage of those who stood their ground through fear and loss. As El Guayabo enters a new phase to define how reparations will be made, the hope is that this step will not only restore what was taken but help heal what violence tried to erase.

Late in Trump’s first term, the Justice Department convened the Joint Task Force Vulcan to catch senior members of the notorious MS-13 gang who, from their base in El Salvador,  were directing the organization’s activities in the US (including kidnappings, drug trafficking and murders). Eventually, nine MS-13 gang leaders were taken into US federal custody.

But now President Bukele of El Salvador wants them back.

Why?

The gang leaders have threatened to exposed Bukele’s alleged deals his government made with MS-13 to help achieve El Salvador’s historic drop in violence. It’s also a key step in hindering an ongoing U.S. investigation into his government’s relationship with MS-13.

Early this year, US Secretary of State Marco Rubio brokered a deal to make both Trump and Bukele look good. Trump needed a foreign partner to accept deportees regardless of nationality or legal considerations. Bukele, condemned by human rights advocates for curtailment of civil liberties, sweeping accumulation of executive power and oversight of a prison system beset by abuse, needed to ward off threats to his reputation as a crime-fighting visionary (and “the world’s coolest dictator,” as he describes himself).

The deal between Rubio and Bukele granted the Trump administration access to a sprawling foreign prison dubbed the Terrorism Confinement Center, or CECOT, that would become integral to Trump’s ongoing efforts to conduct the “largest deportation in American history.”

Read this compelling article based on accounts from dozens of officials from the United States and El Salvador, lawyers representing MS-13 gang members, prosecutors, diplomats, former Justice Department officials and political appointees. The Trump administration’s willingness to renege on secret arrangements made with informants who had aided U.S. investigations has not been previously reported.