Disposable People: We Are Not Safe

The Trump administration is quietly creating offshore detention, disappearance, and exile—and Americans could soon be next.

This was a particularly heavy one for me to sit with. It’s an analysis, so be prepared for its density. A strategic playbook will follow soon.

If you’d like to dive deeper into CECOT, please read CECOT: El Salvador’s Prison of No Return, the accompanying insight piece.

Note: Sources are cited throughout the post, like in all my other posts, as links embedded within the text and indicated by underline.

Something just broke.

On March 15, 2025, the Trump administration invoked a wartime law—the Alien Enemies Act, last used in World War II—to deport more than 260 men, most of them Venezuelan asylum seekers, directly into the custody of a notorious mega-prison in El Salvador called CECOT. These deportations happened without hearings, without evidence, without charges. In at least one case, the administration openly defied a federal judge’s direct order to halt the removal, sending detainees overseas even after an injunction had been issued.

This isn’t immigration enforcement as we know it. This isn’t even deportation in the traditional sense. It’s the beginning of something else entirely: a policy of disappearance, exile, and outsourced detention, deliberately designed to evade accountability, judicial oversight, and due process.

Within weeks, leaked internal documents revealed that the “overwhelming majority” of those deported had no criminal records whatsoever. Many were asylum seekers, fleeing persecution or economic collapse in Venezuela. Some were delivery drivers, soccer coaches, even makeup artists—ordinary people, now incarcerated indefinitely in a Salvadoran prison notorious for abuse, torture, and human rights violations.

Why does this matter? Because this is no longer about migrants, gangs, or border control. It’s about the administration claiming a new power: the power to remove anyone—citizen or not—from the protection of U.S. law, simply by declaring them a threat. It’s about the precedent being set for when the government decides that someone is no longer deserving of rights, process, or dignity.

This isn’t a shift. It’s a rupture. And if this rupture becomes normalized, no one will be safe from the arbitrary definition of who deserves protection—and who is disposable.

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The New Model of Repression: Outsource, Disappear, Deny

What the administration is testing now isn’t complicated. It’s disturbingly simple:

• Label people as threats—without evidence.

• Strip away their legal rights—without hearings.

• Deport them to another country—without accountability.

• Outsource imprisonment to a foreign power—without oversight.

The Alien Enemies Act of 1798 was dusted off precisely because it allows exactly that—at least theoretically. It lets the executive branch identify a group as a wartime enemy and authorize their detention or removal without judicial interference. But the Trump administration isn’t applying this law in wartime against soldiers or spies; they're applying it during peacetime, against people they broadly label as "gang members" or "invaders."

The Alien Enemies Act was initially designed for declared wars against foreign states, and was infamously invoked to justify the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II—a chapter long recognized as a shameful historical relic. Its extraordinary revival now, in peacetime and targeting individuals fleeing persecution, signals an alarming return to a dangerous logic of exclusion, imprisonment, and collective punishment—and an unprecedented expansion of executive authority.

El Salvador’s notorious mega-prison, CECOT, built by President Nayib Bukele as part of his authoritarian anti-gang crusade, became the perfect destination. Bukele’s own security minister has openly declared that detainees sent there will never return home. In other words, this isn't detention—it's disappearance. And it’s being carried out not by covert rendition flights, but openly, in broad daylight, with taxpayer funds and official declarations.

Inmates inside CECOT routinely endure brutal conditions, including mass beatings, prolonged solitary confinement, severe overcrowding, and systematic starvation tactics. Human rights organizations have explicitly condemned the prison, describing conditions as deliberately cruel and inhumane.

For Bukele, this arrangement is lucrative. He receives millions of dollars to warehouse detainees, lending international legitimacy to his regime. For the Trump administration, the benefit is even more sinister: they've created an offshore black site, one step removed from constitutional protections, judicial oversight, and accountability.

And now the administration is quietly suggesting they might expand this approach—possibly even to U.S. citizens. When asked directly about sending Americans to El Salvador’s prisons, Trump didn’t deny it. Instead, he simply said he'd do it "in a heartbeat" if it were legal.

This is the logic of authoritarianism in action: create a gray area outside the reach of laws, courts, and moral accountability—then test how far you can push it. Today it’s Venezuelan asylum seekers; tomorrow it could be anyone deemed inconvenient, dangerous, or disloyal. The stage has been set, and the model is in place.

Official social media post from ICE on April 10, 2025, it was quickly removed

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Who They're Sending—and Who They're Sacrificing

When the Trump administration sent those planes to El Salvador, they claimed everyone aboard was a dangerous criminal—gang members, threats, enemies. But the reality was very different.

Internal government records quickly revealed that most of the 238 Venezuelan men deported had no criminal records whatsoever. Instead, many were asylum seekers fleeing persecution and economic collapse. Their supposed crimes? Tattoos misread as gang symbols. Innocuous hand gestures in old Facebook posts. A photograph shared on social media.

Andry Hernández Romero is a make-up artist from Capacho in Venezuela, Credit: Wilinton Barco/Reuters

Among those deported was Andry Hernandez Romero, a 31-year-old makeup artist and theater performer. Andry fled Venezuela after facing persecution for being gay. He had no gang ties or criminal record. Yet U.S. officials presented crown tattoos he had with “mom” and “dad” below them as “evidence” he was a member of Tren de Aragua, a Venezuelan gang.

Identified as Andry Hernandez Romero, Venezuelan makeup artist and asylum seeker. Photojournalist Philip Holsinger recounted that Romero was praying, crying out for his mother, and pleading innocence—explaining desperately that he was gay—as guards forcibly shaved his head and slapped him.

A social media post of Jerce Reyes Barrios with his family

Then there’s Jerce Reyes Barrios, a soccer coach whose only real connection to any “gang” was a tattoo—a soccer ball with a crown, representing his favorite team, Real Madrid. He fled Venezuela after being arrested and tortured—including electric shocks and suffocation—for protesting against Nicolás Maduro’s regime. U.S. officials said this tattoo was proof of gang membership, even though experts confirmed Tren de Aragua members don’t even typically use tattoos as identifiers.

Kilmar Abrego Garcia in a social media post

And Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Maryland resident who was explicitly protected from deportation by a U.S. immigration judge due to credible threats of torture and death from gangs in El Salvador. ICE deported him anyway, later calling it an “administrative mistake.” The Supreme Court itself had to intervene, ordering the administration to facilitate his immediate return.

Identified by his wife, this undated photo shows Kilmer Abrego Garcia at the Terrorism Confinement Center in Tecoluca, El Salvador

These aren’t isolated mistakes—they’re built-in to the model. When guilt is defined broadly enough, innocence becomes irrelevant. And when oversight disappears, the burden of proof shifts dangerously: suddenly, ordinary people like Andry, Jerce, and Kilmar find themselves condemned and incarcerated indefinitely, with no path home.

Their stories aren’t exceptions—they’re warnings. The administration didn’t just sacrifice their rights. They sacrificed their humanity, openly and publicly, betting that we wouldn't notice—or wouldn’t care.

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The Legal Architecture Is Being Sabotaged

When the administration invoked the Alien Enemies Act, it explicitly signaled a willingness to bypass essential safeguards: due process, judicial oversight, and constitutional rights. Even during World War II, when this law was used to justify internment, accused enemy nationals still received hearings and opportunities to contest their detention. Today, lawful residents and asylum seekers receive even fewer protections—an alarming departure from historical precedent.

Most dangerously, the administration is openly defying court orders. On March 15, 2025, a federal judge explicitly issued an injunction halting deportation flights. The administration ignored that ruling, sending detainees overseas anyway—directly undermining judicial authority. This defiance isn't accidental or careless; it's strategic. It's a direct assault on the core principle of checks and balances, testing how far executive power can expand when the courts say "no." Yet, despite these radical actions, Congress remains largely silent—offering at best mild concern but no meaningful resistance. Their failure to act decisively is not neutrality; it is active complicity that accelerates the erosion of institutional safeguards.

The Supreme Court recently intervened again, ordering the administration to immediately facilitate the return of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, whose deportation had been labeled an "administrative mistake." The administration's chilling response was to claim courts had no jurisdiction to compel someone's return once they're sent abroad—a legal theory that, if accepted, would allow the executive to effectively exile anyone beyond judicial reach. The Supreme Court's firm rejection of this argument represents one of the last remaining checks on executive overreach. But the administration has already signaled its willingness to push beyond even this limit, openly questioning whether judicial rulings truly constrain executive actions.

This is the critical moment. The Supreme Court remains the last meaningful institutional safeguard left—standing alone between unchecked executive power and the vulnerable people targeted by it. If the administration succeeds in diminishing this final judicial authority, nothing remains to prevent future abuses. We're no longer watching a theoretical erosion of rights and protections. We’re witnessing the deliberate dismantling of the judicial check on executive authority—in real time, before our eyes.

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U.S. Citizens Are Next—and They Already Said So

When asked explicitly if the administration was considering sending U.S. citizens to El Salvador’s notorious prisons, Trump didn’t deflect. He didn’t say it was impossible, absurd, or unthinkable. Instead, he openly confirmed that he'd act immediately if the law allowed.

Just recently, Trump openly suggested sending U.S. citizens protesting Tesla to El Salvador’s prisons, further normalizing the previously unthinkable idea of outsourcing punishment and imprisonment of Americans abroad.

This wasn’t a slip-up. It was an intentional message—a trial balloon—to test the public reaction and signal just how far the administration is prepared to go.

El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele has already made the offer clear: his prisons are open for anyone the U.S. wants to send, explicitly including American citizens and lawful permanent residents. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio confirmed that such an offer exists and that the administration would consider it, subject to “legalities.”

Border czar Tom Homan even floated the idea of deporting entire families—including those with American citizens—as an alternative to family separation.

But constitutional protections make it crystal clear: deporting U.S. citizens is illegal. Citizenship is a birthright protected explicitly by the 14th Amendment. Due process is guaranteed by the 5th Amendment. The Supreme Court itself has repeatedly affirmed these protections. Yet the administration’s careful phrasing—"if it were legal"—hints that legality might soon be negotiable.

This is not just a theoretical threat. Americans have already been wrongfully deported before. In the early 2000s, American citizens like Mark Lyttle were mistakenly deported, trapped in foreign prisons and shelters for months, even years, before proving their citizenship. If the administration has shown anything, it’s that paperwork errors, "administrative mistakes," and deliberate disregard for due process are all too common. Now imagine those mistakes, but under a system explicitly designed to bypass accountability, judicial review, and constitutional protections.

The line has already been tested—quietly at first, then publicly. The administration has openly asked: What if citizenship didn’t matter anymore? What if constitutional rights were conditional? What if being American no longer guaranteed protection, due process, or even a safe return home?

They haven’t yet acted explicitly—but the idea has now been seeded, publicly and intentionally. And once an idea becomes normalized, the unthinkable quickly becomes policy. History shows clearly: once governments openly discuss stripping citizens of rights or protections, actions soon follow. We are dangerously close to that threshold now.

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The Long Game: Prison by Proxy, Power by Distance

What we’re witnessing isn’t just about immigration policy, gang crackdowns, or border security. It’s the blueprint for something far darker—a systematic restructuring of how the state deals with people it defines as threats. The model is dangerously simple: if someone can’t be prosecuted or detained lawfully in America, the administration can now send them to another country to do the work. It's prison by proxy, outsourced punishment, and repression at a distance.

This approach serves two chilling purposes. First, it removes accountability. What happens abroad is out of sight, beyond the reach of domestic courts, journalists, and human rights advocates. The brutality and abuses inside El Salvador’s CECOT prison—well documented by international observers—no longer become America’s problem. Second, it sends a message domestically: protection is conditional. Rights are revocable. Due process is optional.

None of this is accidental or improvised. It’s explicitly laid out in the administration’s ideological roadmap, Project 2025, which openly advocates dismantling judicial oversight, massively expanding detention, and empowering agents without limits. These proposals represent something unprecedented—even compared to previous conservative immigration policies. This isn't simply tougher enforcement—it's a radical departure from past administrations, Democrat or Republican alike:

“ICE Enforcement and Removal Operations (ERO) should be identified as being primarily responsible for enforcing civil immigration regulations, including the civil arrest, detention, and removal of immigration violators anywhere in the United States, without warrant where appropriate...” - Project 2025, p. 142

“Congress should mandate and fund additional bed space for alien detainees. ICE should be funded for a significant increase in detention space, raising the daily available number of beds to 100,000.” - Project 2025, p. 143

“All ICE memoranda identifying ‘sensitive zones’ where ICE personnel are prohibited from operating should be rescinded. Rely on the good judgment of officers in the field to avoid inappropriate situations.” - Project 2025, p. 142

"The current border security crisis was made possible by glaring loopholes in our immigration system... releasing a vast and complex set of threats into our country. Congress must pass meaningful legislation to close the current loopholes and prevent future Administrations from exploiting them for political gain or personal ideology." - Project 2025, p. 147

El Salvador is the test case, but the administration has hinted other countries are interested. If this model holds, it won’t be limited to a single prison. It could easily become a global network—like those operated covertly by authoritarian governments worldwide (Egypt, Turkey, Saudi Arabia)—a patchwork of countries willing to host detainees for cash, diplomatic favor, or leverage.

History has seen such networks before: Argentina’s Dirty War disappearances, the CIA’s secret rendition “black sites” after 9/11, and authoritarian regimes using offshore detention to evade accountability. America is now openly embracing methods it once condemned as abuses.

This is authoritarian governance at its core. Regimes worldwide have used secret prisons, rendition sites, and offshore detention centers to evade accountability. But here, it’s not hidden—it’s done openly, through official channels, in plain view, and presented as a policy innovation. It’s authoritarianism, fully institutionalized and bureaucratized.

DHS Secretary Kristi Noem has explicitly stated that individuals sent to CECOT should remain imprisoned there “for the rest of their lives,” signaling broad administrative alignment.

And who profits? Leaders like Nayib Bukele, who gain legitimacy and financial support. Administrations like Trump's, who gain leverage, silence, and compliance. And powerful domestic interests who see profit in militarized borders, outsourced prisons, and unchecked executive power.

This isn't immigration enforcement. It’s the early structure of a repressive system, a test-run for how far democracy can bend before it breaks entirely. And the longer this model operates without resistance, the harder it becomes to dismantle.

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Remember Their Names. This Is Happening in Real Time.

Policies aren’t abstractions. They have faces, families, and stories. They’re real people, with real lives, being broken by decisions made thousands of miles away, in offices where accountability seems like an afterthought.

Remember Andry Hernandez Romero, the makeup artist fleeing persecution, deported for Facebook photos the government misunderstood. Remember Jerce Reyes Barrios, a soccer coach whose tattoo of his favorite team became his sentence. Remember Kilmar Abrego Garcia, taken despite explicit protection by a U.S. judge, now stranded in a foreign prison awaiting rescue by Supreme Court order.

We don’t know how many others—how many more soccer coaches, delivery drivers, students, asylum seekers—are now trapped, silenced, and forgotten. But we know these names. We know their stories. And we know exactly who put them there.

This isn't a distant crisis. It's here, right now. And every day this system continues, the names multiply, the silence deepens, and the injustice grows harder to undo.

This is the moment we decide whether these names become warnings or simply disappear into silence. The moment we decide what America stands for, and what it will allow to happen in its name.

Andry, Jerce, Kilmar

Andry, Jerce, Kilmar—remember these names. Their lives depend on it. And someday, ours might too.

But concern alone isn’t enough. This moment demands immediate, decisive action: contact your representatives to demand accountability, support human rights groups advocating for detainees, back litigation efforts challenging these abuses, and participate actively in peaceful public protests. Resistance is not just urgent; it begins now. A full strategic playbook to follow.

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