Rosalina González’s granddaughter is nine months old. Every day of her short life has been spent in Izalco penitentiary in Sonsonate, the maximum-security prison in western El Salvador notorious for its documented history of torture and abuse.
The child was born in the prison after her already pregnant mother was detained on 19 February 2025, alongside her father and uncle, González’s sons. That night, González remembers being awoken at her home in Chilamates, in rural north-west El Salvador, by police who accused her family of unlawful association with gang members and took them away.
The charge is often used to imprison people under the state of emergency introduced in March 2022 by Salvadoran president Nayib Bukele, who once described himself as the “world’s coolest dictator”.
The state of emergency has suspended key constitutional rights in a purported effort to dismantle the criminal networks that wielded substantial power in El Salvador at the time. Human rights organisations say it has fuelled a startling democratic backslide, as well as arbitrary detentions and deaths in custody. Yet Bukele has an approval rating of 94%, which he attributes to the country’s falling homicide rate, which has gone from one of the highest in Latin America to the lowest in the region amid draconian policies and pacts his government has quietly made with gang leaders.
After more than a year in detention, González’s sons and daughter-in-law have still not been convicted of any crime. Yet like many of the more than 90,000 people who have been imprisoned under the state of emergency, they have been denied all contact with the outside world.
Today, González fiercely defends her family’s innocence. “My sons were working men,” the 59-year-old told openDemocracy. “My kids are honest… I could leave money here on this table and they would not touch it.”
Although she has reported their detention to the Public Prosecutor for Human Rights, no progress has been made on their case.
“I ask myself: what did the baby do?” says Sylvia Portillo, the mother-in-law of Gonzalez’s youngest son, the uncle of the child born in prison. “The babies have nothing to do with anything.”
Children with life sentences
It is not just those born behind bars who are growing up in El Salvador’s prisons.
More than 3,000 under-18s were detained between March 2022 and July 2024, according to a Human Rights Watch report. Some of those children have described being tortured and abused whilst in custody.
Last month, new reforms came into effect that give judges the power to hand out life sentences to children as young as 12 who are convicted of crimes including homicide, femicide, rape and gang membership. Gang association sentences were previously capped at ten years for children aged 15 and under, and 20 years for adolescents aged 16 to 18.
The reforms have sparked “deep concern” from UNICEF and the UN Committee on the Rights of the Child, which, in a joint statement, accused El Salvador of “a contradiction of the standards enshrined in the Convention on the Rights of the Child”.
Andrés Dimas
Defence lawyer Lucrecia Landaverde believes many of the children being arrested were never involved with gangs. “It is very likely that innocent children will end up with life sentences,” she said, explaining that El Salvador’s judicial system is heavily stacked against defendants.
Many people are found guilty based only on the testimony of a police officer or “co-operating witness” – a convicted gang member offered a reduced sentence for testifying for the prosecution. “The reward consists of reducing their sentence or even pardoning their crimes in exchange for helping to testify and point the finger at everyone, regardless of whether they are making it all up,” Landaverde said. “The criminal protects himself and his own family, and starts accusing people he doesn't even know.”
This testimony is rarely scrutinised adequately, she added, saying a judge once called for her arrest in open court for cross-examining a prosecution witness.
Landaverde vividly remembers the early days of the state of emergency, when “mass arrests were carried out without any oversight”, she said. “[Our office] looked like a health clinic, packed around the clock with people crying in the waiting room because their young children had been arrested.”
She told openDemocracy how a 13-year-old boy was detained after refusing to share his fried chicken with police officers. “They arrested him, took the chicken, put him in prison and charged him with unlawful association,” she said, “then they ate the chicken.”
Some in El Salvador view the reforms that hand life sentences to children as part of Bukele’s continued crackdown on freedom of expression. “This is a message to young people that no one can oppose the regime, that no one can speak out here,” Samuel Ramírez, the founder of Salvadoran human rights organisation MOVIR, told openDemocracy.
Meanwhile, it is not known how many infants and young children are living in prisons after being born there.
“We have cases of children who have been born in prison, whose mothers were arrested while pregnant. There are other children who have died from a lack of medical care in prison,” Ramírez said. “No matter how much the family or the grandmother asked for them to be returned, they were never returned.”
At least four babies who were born in prisons in the country were confirmed to have died due to poor conditions and limited medical care last year, with causes of death including pneumonia and liver failure. There are also “reports of additional deaths of pregnant women and newborns, including stillbirths resulting from the denial of care”, according to the UN Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women.
In February, the committee expressed grave concern over the conditions for pregnant women in El Salvador’s prison system, highlighting a lack of adequate prenatal and postnatal care, as well as an environment unfit for detained children.
openDemocracy asked the Salvadoran presidency about abuses of rights under the state of emergency, criticism of the detention of babies and children, and the imposition of life imprisonment on children as young as 12. The government did not respond.
‘We’re dying inside’
Today, Rosalina González lives in the shell of the home that her sons were building for the family when they were arrested. With no one to continue construction, the front room is still without a roof.
Standing in the bedroom of her youngest son, she carefully removes a few of his belongings from a plastic bag and lines them up on the bed. His photograph is pinned on one wall, alongside a collection of children’s toys and drawings made by his six-year-old daughter, who lives with her other grandma, Sylvia Portillo, and has never met her baby cousin.
“Every time I’d put my hat on, he would take it off me again,” says the child, laughing as she remembers her father. “It was like a game.”
She skids across the dirt floor of the roofless main room, skipping giddily between stripes of shade and sunlight. A pink folding fan flashes in one hand. Dancing tip-toe across the dust, she uses it to conceal her face from an imagined audience.
Inside, her grandmother repacks her father’s belongings and places them out of sight. González spends much of her time alone these days, denied contact with her detained sons and daughter-in-law. “You feel like you’re dying inside,” she says. “They destroyed my life. They destroyed my children’s lives.”
Euan Wallace is a freelance journalist and photographer. His work focuses on human rights and the climate crisis across Latin America. He is currently based in Bogotá, Colombia.
Martina Mariano is a freelance journalist and aspiring anthropologist, based in Bogotá, Colombia. Her work focuses on human rights and migration.
