Trump’s Deportation Scandal: Venezuelans Imprisoned in Secret El Salvador Deal

Paul Riverbank, 12/27/2025 Deportation, confusion, and violated rights: over 250 Venezuelans endure a legal and moral quagmire across borders. As international focus wavers, their ordeal tests the meaning of due process and justice—reminding us that for some, the wait for fairness is far from over.

It’s strange how the chain from Caracas to El Salvador passes through decisions made in Washington: an old law, the Alien Enemy Act — dusty and, to most, forgotten — that the Trump administration decided to put to use again. The men were called “Tren de Aragua gang members,” though a few later said the name meant as little to them as the geography in which they landed.

No one explained, not properly, why El Salvador. Reports suggested secret arrangements, back-channel deals — the sorts of things governments do when the world isn’t paying close attention. But in CECOT, explanations weren’t offered. Instead, life settled into bleak repetition. Days bled together. Some men claim news was rationed out in scraps, like cigarettes or hope; lawyers and families, cut off entirely. One mother, Ana, said she spent months tracing phone lines from Caracas to Miami to San Salvador. “Silence, only silence,” she kept repeating during our interview.

Back in Caracas, after months in confinement, Andry Blanco stood before a sea of cameras and made his plea for justice. “We have lived through the kind of suffering no one imagines,” he said, flanked by men who wore the same thin, hopeless look. With voices shaking, they demanded international organizations take notice, to intervene so their rights might be given more than lip service.

Around July, the wheel turned once again: the men were loaded onto planes and sent back to Venezuela. This abrupt reversal didn’t happen out in the open, either; instead, it was apparently the product of closed-door negotiations between Biden’s administration and Nicolás Maduro’s government. Nobody watching could pin down the details, but the effect was clear — these men, who belonged nowhere, belonged nowhere still.

Now in Caracas or Maracay or Barquisimeto, many of the men won’t go outside. “They’re watching,” said Nolberto Aguilar, glancing past me, his voice barely above a whisper. When I asked who “they” were, his answer was vague. He knows only that trust evaporated—of the U.S., of the police, of any system meant to protect.

In their corner, the Venezuelan government staged more press conferences than usual. Camilla Fabri, a vice-minister, promised lawsuits against the United States. She spoke of working with American bar associations and bringing cases before any court that might listen. The message was more about geopolitics than the men themselves, and yet, for once, the spotlight stayed on their faces a little longer.

Some described nights in CECOT without sleep, guards shuffling through the hallways; others say the real punishment began after the return, in a country where being observed means being at risk. Sheets of legal documents are stacking up, advocates taking notes and trying to stitch some thread of due process across two continents. If justice means a day in court, well, Judge James Boasberg in the United States said two weeks ago that the government will have to show how these men can get one. His words are a promise, maybe, or maybe just another piece of paper.

The headlines move fast. By the time reporters like me catch up, people have changed their names, their addresses, even the color of their hair. But for the men who landed in CECOT and circled back home, time drags. Rumors—torture, disappearances, paperwork that vanishes just like people do—multiply.

In the end, the story isn’t clean. Reality rarely is. It’s all jagged edges, unfinished sentences, and people waiting, not for the world to watch, but for someone, anyone, to answer their questions.

They shuffled off the plane, wrists raw where the cuffs had bitten, blinking under hard lights. Most looked back once or twice, squinting at the horizon as the last glance at anywhere familiar slipped out of sight. For more than 250 Venezuelan men last March, their journey ended somewhere nobody had warned them about — a fortress called CECOT, the kind of place people in Central America mention with a nervous edge.It’s strange how the chain from Caracas to El Salvador passes through decisions made in Washington: an old law, the Alien Enemy Act — dusty and, to most, forgotten — that the Trump administration decided to put to use again. The men were called “Tren de Aragua gang members,” though a few later said the name meant as little to them as the geography in which they landed.No one explained, not properly, why El Salvador. Reports suggested secret arrangements, back-channel deals — the sorts of things governments do when the world isn’t paying close attention. But in CECOT, explanations weren’t offered. Instead, life settled into bleak repetition. Days bled together. Some men claim news was rationed out in scraps, like cigarettes or hope; lawyers and families, cut off entirely. One mother, Ana, said she spent months tracing phone lines from Caracas to Miami to San Salvador. “Silence, only silence,” she kept repeating during our interview.Back in Caracas, after months in confinement, Andry Blanco stood before a sea of cameras and made his plea for justice. “We have lived through the kind of suffering no one imagines,” he said, flanked by men who wore the same thin, hopeless look. With voices shaking, they demanded international organizations take notice, to intervene so their rights might be given more than lip service.Around July, the wheel turned once again: the men were loaded onto planes and sent back to Venezuela. This abrupt reversal didn’t happen out in the open, either; instead, it was apparently the product of closed-door negotiations between Biden’s administration and Nicolás Maduro’s government. Nobody watching could pin down the details, but the effect was clear — these men, who belonged nowhere, belonged nowhere still.Now in Caracas or Maracay or Barquisimeto, many of the men won’t go outside. “They’re watching,” said Nolberto Aguilar, glancing past me, his voice barely above a whisper. When I asked who “they” were, his answer was vague. He knows only that trust evaporated—of the U.S., of the police, of any system meant to protect.In their corner, the Venezuelan government staged more press conferences than usual. Camilla Fabri, a vice-minister, promised lawsuits against the United States. She spoke of working with American bar associations and bringing cases before any court that might listen. The message was more about geopolitics than the men themselves, and yet, for once, the spotlight stayed on their faces a little longer.Some described nights in CECOT without sleep, guards shuffling through the hallways; others say the real punishment began after the return, in a country where being observed means being at risk. Sheets of legal documents are stacking up, advocates taking notes and trying to stitch some thread of due process across two continents. If justice means a day in court, well, Judge James Boasberg in the United States said two weeks ago that the government will have to show how these men can get one. His words are a promise, maybe, or maybe just another piece of paper.The headlines move fast. By the time reporters like me catch up, people have changed their names, their addresses, even the color of their hair. But for the men who landed in CECOT and circled back home, time drags. Rumors—torture, disappearances, paperwork that vanishes just like people do—multiply.In the end, the story isn’t clean. Reality rarely is. It’s all jagged edges, unfinished sentences, and people waiting, not for the world to watch, but for someone, anyone, to answer their questions.