PJP writers react to the pictures of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem standing in front of men packed tightly together in CECOT, the Central American nation’s notorious prison.
by Daniel X. Cohen, Troy Chapman, Jeffery Shockley, Patrick Irving, Cesar Hernandez, Angelo Sedillo, Jamie Silvonek, Derek LeCompte and Justin Slavinski
[This work first appeared on Prison Journalism Project.]
In late March, images of U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem standing in front of rows of men packed tightly together in a Salvadoran mega-prison spread across the globe.
Most of the men were sitting back-to-back on metal bunks, arranged in three levels, in a huge, crowded room. Some men were standing up. Many were wearing masks, and many were shirtless in identical white shorts.
Some commentators likened the images to 20th century concentration camps. Trump supporters have applauded the move as an effective strategy for discouraging immigration to the United States.
People locked up in U.S. prisons saw the images, too. Ten PJP contributors shared their reflections on the photos.
Cesar Hernandez, writing from Texas, said the images reminded him of his first day in prison, when he and four busloads of men were transported from a county jail to a processing center. “The guards packed us into two small cages where we waited to be further processed,” Hernandez wrote. “I looked at the two female and three male employees and could sense it was just another day for them.”
Meanwhile, Jamie Silvonek, who writes from Pennsylvania, remembered seeing the images for the first time on CNN. She and her cellmate watched the news while drinking coffee and cozying up under colorful crocheted blankets. The differences, between the men on the screen and her life in an incentive unit, “couldn’t be more stark,” she observed.
Read their full responses and more from other writers below.
— PJP Editors
When I was in High Desert State Prison, a high-security facility east of Redding near the Nevada border, sometimes we got rounded up and ordered to strip to our boxers and white undershirts (just like those guys in El Salvador). We’d be handcuffed and put on the benches in the dayroom while our cells were thoroughly searched. It was a very dehumanizing experience and made us feel like zoo animals or cattle being processed pre-slaughter.
— Daniel X. Cohen, California
When I saw the images of prisoners in El Salvador, it triggered memories of my own life in U.S. prisons. I’ve been in since Ronald Reagan was president and I’ve always found it difficult to communicate certain aspects of the experience. Being possessed, for instance, is a reality many of my readers would not intuitively understand.
I’m talking about being actually possessed by other human beings. Sometimes you can push this horrible reality to the back of your mind, but then government agents show up at your door and assert their possession, their ownership, of you. How? By showing you they can tell you to take your clothes off, for example, and force upon you whatever degree of vulnerability they demand. Or by telling you how to interact with your own family in the visiting room: “Sit up straight,” or “Face the desk,” or “Keep your feet on the floor.” I’ve seen guards tell people how to deal with their own children.
— Troy Chapman, Michigan
I have not experienced that exact form of treatment while serving my life sentence. But when there is a shakedown, corrections staff come to the housing unit and systematically inspect individual cells, searching for contraband. I have been through many humiliating strip searches — made to stand outside the cell, handcuffed with my forehead planted against the wall, wearing only boxers, a T-shirt and shower shoes as the contents of my cell were strewn about. If I dared move, it would have been considered a sign of aggression, and handled as such.
— Jeffery Shockley, Pennsylvania
I’ve never experienced anything like what I saw in the images of CECOT. But I once spent three weeks in an Idaho jail that housed a significant population of Latino men, some awaiting deportation. It was filthy and overcrowded — three men to a bunk, new arrivals on the floor. There was one dispenser for powder toothpaste and none for soap.
After watching four guys jump a dude over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I prepared myself for the worst by shaving off my long, blonde hair. And then I set out to see what could be done about these terrible conditions.
Jail staff were reluctant to produce jail policies when I asked but did so eventually. When I shared with them the policies they were violating, they used a pencil to revise them in their favor.
My neighbors soon joined in my attempts to confront our conditions. We eventually caught the attention of jail management, and found our concerns validated when they responded with significant action. Roughly 90% of the men on my unit were immediately transferred to nicer dorms. The rest of us, when offered a chance to give the unit a deep clean and paint job, were happy to stay as volunteers.
— Patrick Irving, Idaho
When I saw the images of El Salvador, I instantly recalled my first day in prison. Four buses had left the county jail, and I was in one of them. It felt like we were in a rush since the engine roared, as if we were hitting maximum speed. As soon as we got off the bus, a guard yelled: “You no longer belong to county! You now belong to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice!”
We arrived to a massive open space with several “stations.” We were wearing only torn and worn-out jumpsuits. Soon they strip-searched us six at a time, then gave us each a pair of boxers. Afterward, the guards packed us into two small cages where we waited to be further processed. I looked at the two female and three male employees and could sense it was just another day for them.
Next I was shaved bald. The barber was not gentle. It felt like the dull clippers were plucking my hair instead of shaving it. I was handed a towel and a tiny blue bar of soap, then sent to the shower. It was October, and that was the coldest shower I’ve ever taken.
Next I was given socks, a shirt, pants and shoes. I approached the desk so the two women could check me in. I had to undress again, so the guards could see I had no tattoos. One of the women asked me to step on a scale, took my photo for my ID card, then pressed my fingers into the ink. Finally, she placed a red plastic wristband on me and shipped me off to solitary confinement, where I would begin my long sentence.
When I saw the El Salvador photos, I was outraged. I knew everything was staged. I knew all those men would experience much worse things as soon as the cameras clicked off.
— Cesar Hernandez, Texas
To be honest, the images reminded me of the Central Florida Reception Center in Orlando. There, the officers screamed at you while you were packed in small rooms with many other men, wearing only boxers. I was filled with remorse for the men I saw on TV. Those are not living conditions for human beings.
— J.B., as told to PJP writer Justin Slavinski in an interview, Florida
Back in early March, when footage of mass deportation detainees were broadcast on every network, it enraged the majority of prisoners here at Northeast New Mexico Detention Facility. Some men were deeply upset because what they saw was so similar to their own degrading experiences.
One guy told me about a random unit shakedown he recalled from 2012. “They cattled us to the gym, stripped us down to boxers, then handcuffed us like a centipede in a nuts-to-butts fashion,” he said. He described how humiliating it had been being forced to wrap his arms around another man’s waist while cuffed. Seven more men were attached to this human centipede.
— Angelo Sedillo, New Mexico
I first saw the images from CECOT while watching CNN with my roommate one morning. The footage showed incarcerated men being escorted by prison guards, forced to walk while completely bent over, torsos nearly perpendicular to the ground, while their hands were cuffed behind their backs. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing, but the dark irony of the moment didn’t escape me: My roommate and I, both incarcerated human beings, were watching footage of other incarcerated human beings.
Still, the differences between us couldn’t have been more stark. My roommate and I were comfortably enjoying our shared morning ritual of drinking coffee in our beds with colorful crocheted blankets, vaping e-cigarettes and sharing commentary as we watched the news on our personal TVs. Meanwhile, it appeared that the human beings confined in CECOT were forced to sleep and wake up on hard metal. I’m not sure what their morning rituals look like, but I doubt they include coffee and handmade blankets.
My conditions of confinement are significantly better than most people incarcerated in the U.S., which is to say nothing about people incarcerated in El Salvador. I live in an incentive unit, in which I’m allowed out of my cell most of the day. I have relative freedom of movement, access to college courses and educational materials, and the ability to talk to my support system on the outside at least twice a day. I have certainly endured horrible conditions during my incarceration, but nothing compared to those of CECOT.
— Jamie Silvonek, Pennsylvania
Seeing all of those alleged gang members in such a huge cage made me worried. I’ve been locked up in Trenton and Rahway, two maximum security prisons in New Jersey, and have seen what damage can be done by cramming people together. Some of those men in El Salvador are likely ex-gang members, or were never gang members, and that puts their lives in grave peril. I don’t think most people have seen firsthand what kind of violence happens when 10 people gang up on one: makeshift weapons, the smell of blood, the sound of skin popping as it’s being stabbed. You never recover from that. I remember seeing someone in a gang altercation, in Trenton, dive down a set of concrete steps as he was being stabbed by rival gang members, breaking several bones in his body. The man lived, but I was shocked by his desperation.
The question I keep asking: What if some of those men in El Salvador were trying to get out of gangs? Concentrating a large number of gang members in one wide-open place is more deadly than helpful. Perhaps that’s the point.
— Derek LeCompte, New Jersey
I have experienced humiliating things like this in prison. It brought back memories of shakedowns in a Florida prison, when we were made to strip to our boxers in front of female guards. Then we were made to get in what is termed “butts to nuts,” a tightly packed line, then herded into small dayrooms or sally ports as officers rifled through our belongings while gawking and jeering at us.
— R.P., as told to PJP writer Justin Slavinski in an interview, Florida
