After months detained at the Cecot prison in El Salvador, 252 Venezuelan men — many asylum seekers with no criminal records — were released in a diplomatic deal between Venezuela and the US. Survivors report routine beatings, psychological abuse and, in some cases, sexual assault; human-rights groups describe the treatment as systemic torture. Back home, they face persistent trauma, sleep problems, economic hardship and social stigma despite international attention and support. Many are rebuilding community ties and seeking accountability, medical care and ways to earn a living.
‘We Became Famous — But At What Cost?’ Survivors of Cecot Prison Return Home to Trauma, Stigma and Hardship
Andry Hernández Romero, who was detained at Cecot in El Salvador, does the hair of Gabriela Mora, the fiancee of his fellow detainee Carlos Uzcátegui, in Venezuela.Photograph: Obtained by the Guardian
In the run-up to New Year’s, Andry Hernández Romero, his closest friend and family members are building an año viejo — a life-sized effigy of scrap wood and rags, dressed in old clothes and packed with firecrackers. When the clock strikes midnight they will set it alight, a ritual Hernández Romero says helps him "purge" the past and welcome the year ahead.
Hernández Romero, a 32-year-old makeup artist, was one of 252 Venezuelan men accused by the administration of former US president Donald Trump of belonging to the transnational gang Tren de Aragua. Without prior notice or formal legal process, many of the men — several asylum seekers and most with no criminal records — were picked up across the United States and transferred to the Terrorism Confinement Center (Cecot) in El Salvador.
Allegations of Systemic Abuse
During roughly four months in detention, former detainees report repeated beatings, severe mistreatment and, in some cases, sexual assault. Human Rights Watch and the Central American organisation Cristosal documented what they described as near-daily physical and psychological abuse, calling the treatment "systemic torture." In July, the men were unexpectedly released as part of a diplomatic arrangement between Venezuela and the United States.
Return, Reluctant Relief and Lingering Trauma
For many, release meant complicated emotions. “There were so many mixed feelings on the way home,” Hernández Romero said — joy at reuniting with family alongside the painful realization that life had been altered forever. Jerce Reyes Barrios, 36, described a mixture of joy and sadness. José Manuel Ramos Bastidas, 31, called his release surreal: “I never thought I would get out.”
“Freedom is the most beautiful thing in life,” said Edicson David Quintero Chacón, recounting the simple pleasures he savoured after returning — until flashbacks and nightmares reclaimed him.
Quintero and others described a regimen of daily violence: “If we talked, they would beat us,” he said. Guards isolated detainees in a dark room known as “La Isla,” and Hernández Romero has said he was sexually abused there. Attempts to get medical care were dismissed; one doctor reportedly blamed a detainee’s severe headache on drinking too much water. Desperation led some inmates to hunger strikes and to extreme acts of self-harm as a form of protest.
Economic Strain and Social Stigma
Back in Venezuela, many face immediate financial pressure. Ramos left in January 2024 hoping to pay for urgent medical care for his newborn. Quintero, a carpenter and fisherman, sold his motorcycle to fund his trip north. On arrival at the US border, he was fitted with an ankle monitor and instructed to check in with ICE — and in June he was detained during one such check-in. He spent over a year in custody, first in US facilities and then at Cecot.
Now, returning men find it hard to earn enough to support their families. Sleep problems, intrusive memories and chronic anxiety are common. “I can’t sleep for eight hours straight,” Reyes said. “At most I get three or four.”
Publicity helped mobilise international support — rallies, media coverage and solidarity from LGBTQ+ groups — but it also brought stigma and political weaponization. Hernández Romero and others say they were used as props in anti-immigration messaging. Some employers in Venezuela refuse to hire them, and critics accuse some returnees of collaborating with the Maduro government because the releases were negotiated politically.
Community, Recovery and Next Steps
Despite stigma, many survivors are rebuilding social ties. Hernández Romero said the 252 men went into Cecot as strangers and emerged as brothers; group therapy, frequent calls and messages have kept them connected. He has grown close to Carlos Uzcátegui, 32 — he did the bridal makeup for Uzcátegui’s wife and will be the child’s godfather.
Looking ahead, some survivors hope to create community projects: a foundation to empower LGBTQ+ people and people living with HIV, mental-health support programs, and vocational efforts to restore livelihoods. They also seek accountability and an independent investigation into the abuses at Cecot.
Why this matters: The case raises urgent questions about detention practices, cross-border policing and the treatment of migrants and asylum seekers. Survivors are asking for medical and psychological support, economic opportunities and truth and justice for what they endured.
