Bukele Blasts U.S. Critics: Dares Clinton to Take CECOT Inmates

Paul Riverbank, 12/24/2025Bukele clashes with Clinton over CECOT, spotlighting harsh prisons, deportations, and due process failures.

Consider the imposing concrete sprawl that is El Salvador’s Terrorism Confinement Center—widely referred to as CECOT. The prison has become a flashpoint in debates that mix political showmanship with very real questions about justice and humanity. The recent flare began not in the halls of government, but online. Hillary Clinton, former U.S. Secretary of State, shared a PBS Frontline documentary on social media, highlighting three Venezuelan men: Juan José Ramos Ramos, Andry Blanco Bonilla, and Wilmer Vega Sandia. Accompanying her post: a blunt accusation that the Trump administration had falsely labeled these men as gang affiliates, and shipped them off without a fair hearing to “the brutal El Salvadoran prison.”

President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador, never one to take an accusation lying down, shot back with an offer heavy with irony. He declared his willingness to send the entire prison population—yes, including everyone controversially labeled a gang leader or a political prisoner—to any country prepared to receive them. In a further twist of the knife, Bukele suggested that this flood of released inmates would make it easier for journalists and NGOs to interview inmates about conditions and perhaps, he hinted, reinforce criticisms that he suspects some foreign observers are only too eager to confirm. “Until then,” Bukele wrote, “we’ll focus on protecting those who live free from gang rule.” His message was pointed, if not exactly subtle.

It was a rhetorical move as brash as it was revealing. Many outside El Salvador have already voiced unease at CECOT’s operation. Within the towering walls, inmates live in isolation, often with little recourse to challenge the labels attached to them—labels that, for some, have proven nearly impossible to shed. The three Venezuelans at the heart of this recent stand-off maintained their innocence, insisting they were not members of the infamous Tren de Aragua gang, regardless of what the U.S. paperwork said.

Yet sometimes these stories are best told not through official statements but in the messy friction between courts and governments. In March, the Trump White House arranged for the deportation of a group of migrants—among them Ramos, Bonilla, and Vega—to CECOT. Soon after, federal judge James Boasberg delivered a withering opinion: the men, he wrote, were denied even a minimal opportunity to contest their removal in court. “Plaintiffs should not have been removed in the manner that they were, with virtually no notice and no opportunity to contest the bases of their removal, in clear contravention of their due-process rights.”

Yet, in a move that signaled either bureaucratic breakdown or defiance, two planes nevertheless landed at CECOT’s airstrip. A contempt investigation was launched, only to be paused by an appellate court, leaving the migrants’ fate hanging in legal limbo. By midsummer, the pace of events had shifted again—a reported 200-plus of these men were returned to Venezuela as part of what sources simply called a “prisoner exchange.”

One attorney, Lee Gelernt, offered this assessment: “This critical ruling makes clear that the Trump administration cannot simply spirit people off to a notorious foreign prison with zero due process and simply walk away. There are consequences.” Concise, but with an edge.

What’s clear is that Bukele’s campaign to eradicate gang violence—with its militarized tactics and broad sweeps—has paid political dividends at home, though it’s drawn censure abroad. Human rights advocates describe CECOT not so much as a symbol of law and order, but as a cautionary tale about unchecked executive power.

For the United States, the saga is especially tangled. In agreeing to let El Salvador serve as a holding ground for migrants not wanted by Venezuela, the Trump administration found common cause with Bukele—even as American courts began scrutinizing the patchwork legal process (or lack thereof) surrounding the removals. With the judiciary now demanding answers about how the federal government intends to repair due process violations, the door to broader legal precedent has cracked open.

Endless commentary surrounds prisons like CECOT, but the real turmoil lies where bold rhetoric meets administrative reality. Bukele’s dramatic counter-offer will almost certainly go unanswered by other nations, but the point he pressed was unmistakable: critiquing is easy, governing is something else entirely. For the men caught in this tangle, and for observers worldwide, the case remains a reminder of how high the stakes climb when legal safeguards stumble. If power and principle are in conflict, the bruises seldom fade quickly—or quietly.

Turbulent exchanges between heads of state and prominent figures rarely stay neat and tidy in the pages of newspapers. The effects reach further, slicing through diplomatic protocols and reverberating into the lives of real people, some of whom are left in the shadows—detained, displaced, often at the mercy of systems operating far above their heads.Consider the imposing concrete sprawl that is El Salvador’s Terrorism Confinement Center—widely referred to as CECOT. The prison has become a flashpoint in debates that mix political showmanship with very real questions about justice and humanity. The recent flare began not in the halls of government, but online. Hillary Clinton, former U.S. Secretary of State, shared a PBS Frontline documentary on social media, highlighting three Venezuelan men: Juan José Ramos Ramos, Andry Blanco Bonilla, and Wilmer Vega Sandia. Accompanying her post: a blunt accusation that the Trump administration had falsely labeled these men as gang affiliates, and shipped them off without a fair hearing to “the brutal El Salvadoran prison.”President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador, never one to take an accusation lying down, shot back with an offer heavy with irony. He declared his willingness to send the entire prison population—yes, including everyone controversially labeled a gang leader or a political prisoner—to any country prepared to receive them. In a further twist of the knife, Bukele suggested that this flood of released inmates would make it easier for journalists and NGOs to interview inmates about conditions and perhaps, he hinted, reinforce criticisms that he suspects some foreign observers are only too eager to confirm. “Until then,” Bukele wrote, “we’ll focus on protecting those who live free from gang rule.” His message was pointed, if not exactly subtle.It was a rhetorical move as brash as it was revealing. Many outside El Salvador have already voiced unease at CECOT’s operation. Within the towering walls, inmates live in isolation, often with little recourse to challenge the labels attached to them—labels that, for some, have proven nearly impossible to shed. The three Venezuelans at the heart of this recent stand-off maintained their innocence, insisting they were not members of the infamous Tren de Aragua gang, regardless of what the U.S. paperwork said.Yet sometimes these stories are best told not through official statements but in the messy friction between courts and governments. In March, the Trump White House arranged for the deportation of a group of migrants—among them Ramos, Bonilla, and Vega—to CECOT. Soon after, federal judge James Boasberg delivered a withering opinion: the men, he wrote, were denied even a minimal opportunity to contest their removal in court. “Plaintiffs should not have been removed in the manner that they were, with virtually no notice and no opportunity to contest the bases of their removal, in clear contravention of their due-process rights.”Yet, in a move that signaled either bureaucratic breakdown or defiance, two planes nevertheless landed at CECOT’s airstrip. A contempt investigation was launched, only to be paused by an appellate court, leaving the migrants’ fate hanging in legal limbo. By midsummer, the pace of events had shifted again—a reported 200-plus of these men were returned to Venezuela as part of what sources simply called a “prisoner exchange.”One attorney, Lee Gelernt, offered this assessment: “This critical ruling makes clear that the Trump administration cannot simply spirit people off to a notorious foreign prison with zero due process and simply walk away. There are consequences.” Concise, but with an edge.What’s clear is that Bukele’s campaign to eradicate gang violence—with its militarized tactics and broad sweeps—has paid political dividends at home, though it’s drawn censure abroad. Human rights advocates describe CECOT not so much as a symbol of law and order, but as a cautionary tale about unchecked executive power.For the United States, the saga is especially tangled. In agreeing to let El Salvador serve as a holding ground for migrants not wanted by Venezuela, the Trump administration found common cause with Bukele—even as American courts began scrutinizing the patchwork legal process (or lack thereof) surrounding the removals. With the judiciary now demanding answers about how the federal government intends to repair due process violations, the door to broader legal precedent has cracked open.Endless commentary surrounds prisons like CECOT, but the real turmoil lies where bold rhetoric meets administrative reality. Bukele’s dramatic counter-offer will almost certainly go unanswered by other nations, but the point he pressed was unmistakable: critiquing is easy, governing is something else entirely. For the men caught in this tangle, and for observers worldwide, the case remains a reminder of how high the stakes climb when legal safeguards stumble. If power and principle are in conflict, the bruises seldom fade quickly—or quietly.