It was early on a Saturday morning when Ruth Eleonora López was arrested in her home. No summons, no judicial warrant, no timeline – just the vague accusation that she had helped a former employer involved in a corruption case. Two weeks later, the prominent human rights lawyer remains in custody. Without charges. Without a judge. Without rights. What sounds like an isolated incident is, in truth, part of a deeper problem. The so-called “state of emergency” declared by President Nayib Bukele in March 2022 to combat gang crime has long taken on a life of its own – and is now being applied to all kinds of offenses: drunk driving, shoplifting, sexual assault. Lawyers report a new standard: 15 days until the first judicial hearing. That is the maximum permitted under the emergency laws – and it has become the norm.
Nearly 90,000 people have been arrested since the launch of the “War Against the Maras” operation. The vast majority are still waiting to be charged. But by now, it's not just alleged gang members being targeted. It also affects bus drivers who refuse to offer free rides. Protesters who gather outside the presidential palace to oppose evictions. And lawyers like López, who in her previous work for the organization Cristosal not only fought corruption, but also publicly criticized the government. Bukele himself speaks openly about his strategy: “Let them call me a dictator – as long as the people in El Salvador can live in peace.” In his rhetoric, efficiency blends with contempt for legal procedures and a clear message: whoever stands in the regime’s way loses their rights.
And so, what began as a public security initiative has become an instrument of repression. What started as a targeted measure against violence has turned into a political weapon – against critics, against NGOs, against the inconvenient. The state of emergency has long become the new reality, lawyers say. A condition in which even minor offenses are treated under emergency law, in which detention without charge has become standard. The organization Cristosal warns: the López case is not an isolated one, but part of a systematic criminalization of critical voices. The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights is also calling for the immediate lifting of the state of emergency – the security situation no longer justifies these measures. But Bukele is pursuing a different course: he wants to pass a law that would require any NGO receiving international donations to register as a “foreign agent” – including a 30 percent penalty tax.
What is emerging here is not just the erosion of the rule of law. It is the controlled descent into an authoritarian state in which rights are no longer granted, but allocated. Those who oppose the president find themselves on the wrong side of the law – regardless of whether it’s a bus driver or a human rights lawyer. Ruth Eleonora López, whose alleged offense dates back to her time as an advisor to the electoral tribunal, is just one name. But behind her case stands a larger truth: in El Salvador, it is no longer the law that determines guilt. It is the will of power.
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