Trump’s Alien Enemy Act Returns: Hundreds Secretly Deported to Salvadoran Fortress

Paul Riverbank, 12/27/2025Hundreds of Venezuelans, swept into legal uncertainty and international deals, endured detention in El Salvador’s CECOT prison. With hopes rekindled by a U.S. court ruling, their struggle for due process and justice continues—marked by silence, fear, and unresolved questions that echo beyond headlines.

No pamphlet, no official at the checkpoint, bothered to offer an explanation. Why here? Why them? The only thread appeared later: a law from centuries past, the 1798 Alien Enemy Act, now dusted off for the moment and wielded by President Trump. In short order, they were branded—“Tren de Aragua,” the whispered name of a gang—but even the men caught in the sweep often had no idea what that label meant. Some never had a chance to argue.

Inside, time slackened. Guards stamped out a routine: morning head counts, stale meals, and endless nights that pressed in with the same odd quiet. Word from the outside rarely pierced those walls. Families clung to old numbers, dialing Caracas one moment, Miami the next, then San Salvador in desperation. Somewhere, a mother, Ana, kept calling, her messages swallowed. “All I have is silence,” she whispered once to a reporter.

For weeks, the silence was the only answer. Then—without warning—some men returned to Venezuela. Their release, like their removal, came with no fanfare. No press notice, just rumors about a deal between President Biden’s inner circle and Venezuelan officials, none confirmed on the record. If you ask around Caracas, “they just appeared,” someone said, “and that was that.”

Back home, the relief curdled into wariness. “They’re watching,” muttered Nolberto Aguilar, jittery on a crowded street, eyes chasing invisible threats. Trust flickered—gone, really—in systems on both sides of the hemisphere.

Others demanded an audience. “People think they understand what we endured,” began Andry Blanco in an unsteady voice, “but they don’t.” Nearby, Ysqueibel Peñaloza’s statement was more pointed: “We insist there must be a hearing, a real one, not a formality.” Lawyers collected stories, drafted motions. Reporters sorted through legal filings by the stack. Families, meanwhile, kept at their searches—some still unclear about which country their relative was even in.

Change, gradual and then suddenly sharp, came this month. Judge James Boasberg handed down an order that read like daylight after a long stint underground: Those deported, he insisted, must be given their chance in a U.S. court. He didn’t mince words about urgency. The government, he wrote, had two weeks to craft a return plan for those shipped away. In a blink, people who’d lost hope could see a possible way back.

The ruling bounced across official channels, but attention soon drifted elsewhere. The faces that surfaced in news reports looked exhausted—worry pressed deep into their expressions, as if the ordeal were still ongoing, which it was. Venezuela’s officials made noise about international suits, even as the details stayed fuzzy.

Within CECOT, the routine staggered on: late-night pacing, lights that never quite turned off. Back outside, paranoia bred rumors—stories of abuse, of unexplained disappearances, of paperwork vanishing, of names missing from lists. You heard it not in headlines, but in after-dark conversations and closed chat groups.

No one seems certain how this ends or when. By now, the story has slipped through so many hands and borders that it feels less like a single thread and more like a handful of fragments—glimpses from prison yard to Caracas street, stitched together by the dogged work of families and a few advocates. Whether their voices pierce the next round of policy debates, or whether the whole affair fades into the thicket of unfinished business, remains to be seen. For the men who’ve borne this journey, the wait—sometimes silent, sometimes loud—endures, their hopes still tethered to the promise of justice, somewhere ahead.

The prison loomed in the haze of early March—a compound called CECOT, braced with walls that look less like construction and more like warning. One by one, over 250 Venezuelan men shuffled in, their wrists marked from restraints, faces clouded by hours, days, who knows, of uncertainty. Some blinked into the floodlights; others just kept moving, said nothing.No pamphlet, no official at the checkpoint, bothered to offer an explanation. Why here? Why them? The only thread appeared later: a law from centuries past, the 1798 Alien Enemy Act, now dusted off for the moment and wielded by President Trump. In short order, they were branded—“Tren de Aragua,” the whispered name of a gang—but even the men caught in the sweep often had no idea what that label meant. Some never had a chance to argue.Inside, time slackened. Guards stamped out a routine: morning head counts, stale meals, and endless nights that pressed in with the same odd quiet. Word from the outside rarely pierced those walls. Families clung to old numbers, dialing Caracas one moment, Miami the next, then San Salvador in desperation. Somewhere, a mother, Ana, kept calling, her messages swallowed. “All I have is silence,” she whispered once to a reporter.For weeks, the silence was the only answer. Then—without warning—some men returned to Venezuela. Their release, like their removal, came with no fanfare. No press notice, just rumors about a deal between President Biden’s inner circle and Venezuelan officials, none confirmed on the record. If you ask around Caracas, “they just appeared,” someone said, “and that was that.”Back home, the relief curdled into wariness. “They’re watching,” muttered Nolberto Aguilar, jittery on a crowded street, eyes chasing invisible threats. Trust flickered—gone, really—in systems on both sides of the hemisphere.Others demanded an audience. “People think they understand what we endured,” began Andry Blanco in an unsteady voice, “but they don’t.” Nearby, Ysqueibel Peñaloza’s statement was more pointed: “We insist there must be a hearing, a real one, not a formality.” Lawyers collected stories, drafted motions. Reporters sorted through legal filings by the stack. Families, meanwhile, kept at their searches—some still unclear about which country their relative was even in.Change, gradual and then suddenly sharp, came this month. Judge James Boasberg handed down an order that read like daylight after a long stint underground: Those deported, he insisted, must be given their chance in a U.S. court. He didn’t mince words about urgency. The government, he wrote, had two weeks to craft a return plan for those shipped away. In a blink, people who’d lost hope could see a possible way back.The ruling bounced across official channels, but attention soon drifted elsewhere. The faces that surfaced in news reports looked exhausted—worry pressed deep into their expressions, as if the ordeal were still ongoing, which it was. Venezuela’s officials made noise about international suits, even as the details stayed fuzzy.Within CECOT, the routine staggered on: late-night pacing, lights that never quite turned off. Back outside, paranoia bred rumors—stories of abuse, of unexplained disappearances, of paperwork vanishing, of names missing from lists. You heard it not in headlines, but in after-dark conversations and closed chat groups.No one seems certain how this ends or when. By now, the story has slipped through so many hands and borders that it feels less like a single thread and more like a handful of fragments—glimpses from prison yard to Caracas street, stitched together by the dogged work of families and a few advocates. Whether their voices pierce the next round of policy debates, or whether the whole affair fades into the thicket of unfinished business, remains to be seen. For the men who’ve borne this journey, the wait—sometimes silent, sometimes loud—endures, their hopes still tethered to the promise of justice, somewhere ahead.