The Penal Colony
How Trump is Turning Immigration into Authoritarian Theater
When Donald Trump stood beside El Salvador’s president, Nayib Bukele, in the Oval Office, it looked like just another diplomatic photo op. But behind the handshake was something deeper: a test-run for a new kind of governance—one where democratic norms are cast aside, authoritarian tools are outsourced, and human beings become pawns in a larger war on dissent.
Trump isn’t just aligning with Bukele.
He’s auditioning a model—and El Salvador is the laboratory.
CECOT: The Prototype
Start with CECOT, the Salvadoran mega-prison widely condemned by human rights groups. Built for 40,000 inmates, with cells that never see sunlight and toilet access only at night, it is a monument to state control.
It was funded, in part, by $6 million in U.S. aid.
To Bukele, it’s a show of strength. To Trump, it’s a blueprint.
CECOT is not about safety. It’s about optics. About annihilating due process. About governing through spectacle.
And that brings us to the disturbing saga of Kilmar Armando Abrego García.
The Case of Kilmar Abrego García
In March, Abrego—a Maryland father of three—was arrested by ICE and deported to El Salvador. He had a 2019 federal court order barring his removal because of credible fears of persecution.
The deportation was called an “administrative error.” But instead of correcting it, the Trump administration doubled down, branding Abrego a gang member. His family and legal team adamantly deny it. The Supreme Court ruled 9–0 that he must be returned. The Trump administration refused. Bukele refused.
After months of legal pressure and diplomatic standoff, Abrego was returned—not to clear his name, but to be prosecuted.
He now faces federal charges in Tennessee for allegedly transporting undocumented migrants. He’s pled not guilty. He sits in federal custody, trapped between DHS and DOJ—two arms of the same government, each signaling a different fate.
A Legal No-Man’s-Land
At a tense detention hearing, U.S. Magistrate Judge Barbara Holmes supported releasing Abrego pre-trial. She cited contradictions, hearsay, and evidence that “defied common sense.”
One witness claimed he might be MS-13. Another, who’d known him for a decade, saw no signs—no tattoos, no history of violence, no criminal record.
Despite this, DHS said it would immediately re-detain him under an immigration hold if released.
Judge Holmes demanded both agencies submit legal briefs to explain whether they could lawfully deport someone currently on trial in federal court.
The Department of Justice responded with vague promises to “try.” Abrego’s attorney, Sean Hecker, pointed out the absurdity: “The government can guarantee protection for undocumented witnesses, but not for the defendant?”
Judge Holmes summarized the contradiction plainly:
“The Executive Branch is in control of where Defendant Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia awaits trial. This is true because the Executive Branch can elect whether to hold him for deportation proceedings or not.”
Think about that.
A man wrongly deported, imprisoned abroad, returned by court order, and now prosecuted—could be deported again before trial. Because two agencies won’t—or can’t—coordinate.
Yarvin’s Blueprint
If you’ve read Curtis Yarvin, this starts to look familiar.
Yarvin—author of the Dark Enlightenment manifesto—preaches a vision of post-democratic rule: where power flows top-down like a CEO managing a corporation, not through elections, law, or debate.
His enemy is “The Cathedral”—a term he coined for the alliance of universities, media, and bureaucratic institutions that prop up liberal democracy.
To destroy democracy, Yarvin argues, you must:
Discredit knowledge centers
Punish dissent
Reward obedience
Replace rules with command
Trump has done just that—attacking universities, discrediting the press, and outsourcing authoritarian tactics through partnerships like Bukele’s.
But Abrego’s case shows something more chilling: the criminalization of error as a governing principle.
From Mistake to Machinery
First, they deported him by mistake.
Then they refused to fix it.
Then they prosecuted him.
Then they threatened to deport him again.
This isn’t just a rogue immigration case. It’s regime testing—a stress test on due process, accountability, and the boundaries of executive power.
And it’s not isolated.
The Penal Patchwork
While El Salvador exports the model, it’s being imported at home.
In CASA v. Trump, the Supreme Court allowed Trump’s executive order ending birthright citizenship to inch forward—striking down universal injunctions that might have blocked it nationwide.
And in Florida, Trump’s Department of Homeland Security began work on a literal detention island, surrounded by gators, informally dubbed “Alligator Alcatraz.” A real-life penal colony, just offshore.
CECOT. CASA. Alligator Alcatraz.
This is a patchwork state—where rights are conditional, legal protections are loopholes, and power is no longer accountable to truth or law.
Abrego’s Case Is a Warning Shot
A warning that the rule of law can be gamed.
That legal protections can be reframed.
That courts can be outmaneuvered by bureaucratic inertia.
We’re not watching a policy debate.
We’re watching a governance transformation—a steady erosion of democratic infrastructure dressed in the language of national security.
This is not about immigration.
This is not about crime.
This is about power.
A Personal Reckoning
I used to wonder if this kind of authoritarian drift could happen here.
Now I know it can.
The only question I keep asking myself is:
Will we recognize it before it’s too late?