My brother, Gabriel V. Chavez, 51, had lived in the United States as an undocumented citizen since he was 9 years old. He was sent to prison at age 16. Then, after 32 years in prison, he was released and immediately re-arrested. For two years, he was held in an Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention facility, before being deported in September 2024 to El Salvador. Upon his arrival there, he was booked into Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, the country’s terrorism confinement center, known as CECOT.
“I can’t hear his voice over the phone, see him or even correspond with my son,” our mother told me during a phone call in May.
Even since my brother was deported, I have been terrified. I find myself waking up in the middle of the night, tapping the side of my bunk to check if I’m still in my prison bed. Each time I realize I’m still in California’s San Quentin State Prison, and not deported, I feel a sense of relief and pray for my brother.
My mother pointed out in our call that my brother had not been to El Salvador in 42 years, and he has never committed a crime in the country.
“I will never get to see him again,” she said. “He is practically dead.”
Gabriel was deported before President Donald Trump’s election. But since Trump took office in January, hundreds of people have been deported to El Salvador. Many have been incarcerated at the notorious mega-prison CECOT, which can house up to 40,000 people and does not allow visits, outdoor time or educational opportunities. Human rights groups have condemned the Salvadoran government for the prison’s inhumane conditions.
Other immigrants and I have watched these more aggressive deportation policies ramp up. Over months, many of us have grown increasingly alarmed.
People I have spoken with said they feel safer from deportation in our prison than they would on the street right now, where immigration workplace raids are becoming more common. In fact, some people are delaying parole hearings to stay in prison longer and potentially avoid deportation.
Loi Vo, who has been incarcerated for nearly three decades, is one of these people. Vo, a native of Vietnam, told me he decided to postpone his parole hearing for one year, until early 2026. After Vo was convicted of murder, he lost his permanent resident card, or green card. He told me he has an active Immigration and Customs Enforcement detainer, which means the prison system should notify ICE before he’s released. He believes he will be picked up by ICE as soon as he leaves prison.
Vo told me he’s willing to continue delaying his parole hearing if necessary to make sure that he does not end up in a “black hole” prison. News of the El Salvador deportations, and the prison conditions there, has caused him anxiety.
“It is horrifying how non-citizens are being treated,” Vo said.
The Trump administration has also deported immigrants to South Sudan, even if they’re not from there, a place the United Nations has said is on the verge of another civil war.
Courts have blocked some of these deportations to South Sudan and El Salvador, or provided people the opportunity to challenge their deportations. But it appears that many people who are already in El Salvador or other countries will be stuck there with no recourse.
Pedro Espinal, a U.S. Navy veteran who was born in the Dominican Republic, lost his green card, or permanent resident status, when he was convicted. He is scheduled to appear before the parole board in November 2026. He said he would rather die at San Quentin than be sent to a prison in another country.
“Watching the mass deportation scenario that is taking place under the Trump administration from San Quentin gives me chills and I am scared,” Espinal said.
Juan Lopez-Urrutia, another Salvadoran resident at San Quentin, is frustrated that his country’s president, Nayib Armando Bukele Ortez, is accepting deportees and putting them in prison when they haven’t committed a crime in El Salvador.
“Why is President Bukele accepting us deportees and locking us up without us having committed a crime?” Lopez-Urrutia said. “Why can’t [Bukele] create a program for deportees to integrate us back into society? This could give us the opportunity to become law-abiding citizens. Help us get a job, not a pair of handcuffs.”
Leandro Gonzales, also a San Quentin resident, has twice been served documents from the U.S. government notifying him that he would eventually be transferred to his native El Salvador. He first received these documents 20 years ago when he was processed into the California state prison system and received the documents again this year.
He showed me a photocopy of the form he sent back to the U.S. government, challenging the grounds of his deportation, to avoid being sent to El Salvador.
He is scheduled to be released from prison before the end of 2025. He expressed fear that he’d be housed in CECOT for having tattoos, an attribute immigration officials have used to target potential deportees.
“The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation has cleared me of any gang associations,” Gonzales said. “If I was placed in the confinement center, my life would be in limbo, not knowing if I will ever get out.”