The package always contained milk, cereal, oats, corn and soy flour. He never lacked sugar either. Roberto Alonso Villatoro was diabetic and couldn't stand it, but Verónica Reyes, his partner, thought that maybe he could exchange it indoors for something he liked or give it to a partner. Roberto was arrested on December 3, 2022 in a neighborhood in central San Salvador and eventually transferred to the Izalco prison, about 75 kilometers from the capital. He had no criminal record and no evidence against him, but the date of his first court hearing had been postponed to 2025. Reyes, he says, was committed to seeing him through: Every 15 days she would pick up the package from prison. He carefully lists what was there: a toothbrush and a special soap – “because it is known that prisoners often suffer internally from skin diseases” – a pair of boxer shorts, his shorts, a shirt. On January 27, Verónica Reyes received the only phone call from prison authorities in 14 months. Roberto had died and I had to collect his body. The pain increased as he recognized it: “I was looking at a body dying of hunger.” Stop, repeat: “I took the package every 15 days. And he died of hunger.”
The April 22nd District is a labyrinth. There is a main street that leads to hundreds of narrow passages that are connected in a way that only the neighbors know. It was a conflict-ridden, violent neighborhood controlled by gangs. The driver goes to the entrance and says: “I never came in.” Before, at this point, we would have come under fire.” Before President Nayib Bukele began his war on gangs. El Salvador, which for years topped the rankings as the most violent country in Latin America, has been under an emergency regime since March 2022. Murders have fallen sharply, gangs have been wiped out, and a car with tinted windows and journalists can drive into this neighborhood, where freshly painted houses and plants can now be seen in the windows.
Roberto, 38, and Verónica, 44, were born here and met here more than a decade ago. They never married, but they ran a pupusería and a grocery store together. She, a chef, and he, an oil factory worker, decided to open their own business when Roberto's company laid him off due to a downsizing. They lived in a modest house with Verónica's three children, who consider him their adoptive father, ten turtles, three cats and five tiny chihuahuas that they get in search of the sun. “With this man there was no sadness, he looked for the good in the bad,” says Verónica Reyes and she laughs.
At least 75,000 people were detained under the emergency regime, in addition to the 35,000 already in prison. In a country of 6.2 million people, more than 110,000 are in prison. Almost 17% of the population. It is the highest incarceration rate in the world. As the Bukele government has acknowledged, there are innocent people among those detained. How many? More than 6,000 appeals have been filed with the Supreme Court. The executive, up for re-election this Sunday, considers it an acceptable cost of maintaining the security climate. According to the Socorro Jurídico organization, 224 people have died in prisons in these 22 months, a number that even exceeds that of Venezuela. The actual number is not known because the government has kept the information for seven years. The final blow of abuse hits this kind woman with a steady look and an easy smile who, in a regime of fear, dares to say that her life partner has been killed.
Verónica Reyes shows a photo of Roberto Alonso's body on her cell phone after it was reconstructed by the funeral home Gladys Serrano
December 3rd was nothing special. The couple ran errands and took care of the store. Police and military patrolled the passageways. Many had already been taken from these winding streets. Roberto Alonso had been stopped several times, but had shown his papers and cell phone and continued driving. At around two in the afternoon, Reyes was returning from visiting his mother when he saw the uniformed officers escorting his partner out of the store. In about 20 minutes, they reviewed the messages, audio recordings and photos on his phone and also made sure he had no criminal record. Reyes admits that he wasn't worried: “The agent did all his work, he found absolutely nothing during the examination.” “But in the end he told me: 'Look, this is the procedure and I have to do it.' do it anyway.'
Quick, Roberto in handcuffs. Kneeling in front of the truck. The neighbors gather. “Old lady, they’re taking me,” she says to an elderly neighbor who unsuccessfully protests to the military. Verónica tries to film them throwing him into the vehicle like a sack, but the police force her to delete the video or she will be arrested too. “They didn’t allow me to talk to him. I saw him from a distance, they didn't let me get closer, only our looks spoke. “Just our looks.” Quick, the torture.
Roberto Alonso, who was accused of illicit contact, was sent to prison three times. Ever further away, ever worse conditions. She spent the first two months in the former women's prison in Ilopango, near her home. then two more at the Quezaltepeque penal center, an hour away by public transport, and the last stop was Izalco, where Verónica took the bus for about five hours each day between round trips.
He found out about the transfers via Facebook or WhatsApp groups, which announced the deportation of the prisoners and their expected destination. She arrived there with her things. “It turns out that they are not allowed to take their belongings with them during the transfer. So I leave already prepared, I leave with his mat because it was allowed in this prison. And with your package. You always receive it, but it is not a guarantee as there is no receipt. “You walk away knowing that it’s really going to happen to you,” he says sadly.
Verónica Reyes in her home in the municipality of 22 de Abril in Soyapango. Gladys Serrano
The woman had closed the Pupusería while Roberto was still in prison, only to reopen it together after his release. “I said that to keep him strong, he should not lack food. Even if it's just a little bit of what he eats, apart from what they're supposed to give him. A diabetic and hypertensive patient, Reyes noted that his partner was moved from cell to cell, but always in the area designated by family members for the sick. “My consolation was that ever since I was there, I wished they would provide him with medical care for his health problems.” He asked every time. Always the same answer: “That’s fine.”
“It was like this month after month with the packages. There was no information about the inmates. I never received a call from the government's lawyer. I could never talk to Roberto. “I never got to see it.” It wasn’t until January 27, 2024 that he arrived. At 10:00 a.m. he received the call from Izalco Prison. They didn't give him much information. Her partner had died in Saldaña Hospital in San Salvador and she had to go get him. “When we had to recognize him… he was human, but in a skull-like state. In other words, there was no point in me bothering to bring him food every 15 days. It didn't help at all. His skin, this skin on his arms, stuck to his bones. The skin of his face remained over his skull. When they discovered it, it was a skeleton. He hasn't eaten anything, I don't know since when. Veronica is just crying now.
You will receive the autopsy results in a month and the hospital evaluation in about 10 days. At the moment he only has a document written in pen in which the head of the Institute of Forensic Medicine wrote as a forensic report: “He died as a result of pulmonary edema (preliminary cause, report on additional studies is still pending).” Verónica Reyes believes , that foregoing medical care in prison may have affected their health. The hell in the Bukele prisons is no secret: several reports from organizations and survivors say that prisoners have to sleep standing up due to lack of space, that beatings are common, that they never leave the cell or see the light, that they are given cold water Tubes, electric shocks, who neither eat nor are entitled to medication.
“If he got worse, I could have brought him medicine because there are a lot of comments that they don't have enough for treatments. But I never received a notification.” Crying. Repeat the consequences: “My partner died under these inhumane conditions. Without the right to defend himself, to have a trial where evidence and documents will be presented to prove whether he is guilty or not. The only thing they told me was that the hearings were for 2025. How was he supposed to last so long?
Verónica says she is sure she will vote this Sunday. He doesn't want Roberto's story to repeat itself. Although she admits that she is afraid, for herself and for her son, an aviation student. “Speaking badly about the regime is like a crime. If you speak badly, they will throw you out of the regime. They claim the regime. To this day, when my son goes out, I'm unsure what will happen outside when I'm not there where I don't see him, because now they are being taken away even though they have no crime. So what guarantee do we have of safety? I don’t think that’s security.”
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