Elon Musk might still own rockets and rack up retweets, but in Trump’s new world order, there’s a cooler chaos agent on the block—Nayib Bukele, the TikTok-savvy strongman running El Salvador like a crypto start-up with a carceral twist.
Last week, Bukele was welcomed to the White House not with wary diplomacy, but with something closer to brotherhood. The two leaders laughed, complimented each other, and grinned as if NATO never existed. Trump gushed: “One hell of a president.” Bukele, beaming, replied in kind. It was the kind of mutual admiration more common in mirror selfies than statecraft.
Forget the old alliances. Trump has found his ideological twin—anti-media, anti-court, and obsessed with optics over institutions. Their shared playbook? Crush dissent, rewrite laws, and stream the results with a slow-mo soundtrack.
The accidental prisoner: Kilmar Abrego García
Into this dangerous pageantry stumbled Kilmar Abrego García, a Maryland resident married to a U.S. citizen. Despite a 2019 court order protecting him from deportation, García was removed last month and thrown into El Salvador’s CECOT mega-prison—an institution more infamous for its brutality than its legality.
The Trump administration now calls it an “administrative error.” But instead of fixing it, they’ve shrugged. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio declared, “No American court can conduct foreign policy.” Trump, too, seems content to let the mistake fester. Asked whether he’d help bring García back, Bukele quipped: “What do you want me to do, smuggle him into the US?”
The situation has turned surreal. U.S. District Judge Paula Xinis ordered the government to “facilitate” García’s return. The Supreme Court upheld her. And yet, nothing. In this new authoritarian duet, the law is no longer the script—it’s the background noise.
Deporting due process
The White House meeting didn’t just seal García’s fate. It signalled something even bolder: Trump’s openness to sending U.S. citizens to foreign jails. “If it’s a homegrown criminal, I have no problem,” Trump said. “We’re studying the laws right now.”
The legality is murky. The Constitution likely has a few objections. But as one Trump aide put it, Pam Bondi is “looking into it.”
Bukele, meanwhile, has leaned into his role as America’s outsourced jailer. Since January, El Salvador has accepted over 200 deportees, including Venezuelans and others who’ve never set foot in the country. Some had no criminal records. Others were paraded shirtless and chained for state propaganda. A senior ICE official quietly admitted that many “have no criminal charges at all.”
Bukele framed it as public service: “You imprison them to liberate the 350 million.”
Bitcoin’s high priest in a prison state
Bukele isn’t just a prison impresario—he’s also a crypto evangelist. In 2021, he made Bitcoin legal tender, promising freedom from the banking elite through a slick app called Chivo. His dream? A volcano-powered “Bitcoin City” funded by billion-dollar crypto bonds.
Reality hit back. By 2024, fewer than 20% of Salvadorans used the Chivo wallet. The IMF forced him to strip Bitcoin of its tax perks. The bonds never materialised.
Still, Bukele clings to the narrative. El Salvador now holds over 6,100 Bitcoin, worth around $500 million. Whether that’s a brilliant hedge or a financial death spiral remains uncertain. But Trump, ever one for theatrics, loves it. Prisons, Bitcoin, memes—this is governance as clickbait.
A dictatorship you can stream
Both men rule not by policy, but by performance. Trump has Truth Social. Bukele has TikTok. Their governance is all vibes: jailhouse montages, gang crackdowns set to techno beats, Biden jokes and viral takedowns.
Bukele has gutted the judiciary, sidelined prosecutors, and slashed El Salvador’s legislature from 84 to 60 seats. His re-election was unconstitutional. He ran anyway. His emergency decree suspended basic rights and led to over 85,000 detentions. At least 400 people have died in custody.
And yet, his approval ratings remain above 80%.
Senator Chris Van Hollen, whose constituent García is still imprisoned, called the White House meeting “shameful.” But Trump, echoing Bukele’s propaganda, praised the gulag as a model of efficiency. The Constitution didn’t trend that day. Bukele did.
A model for tomorrow’s autocrats
There’s a name for what’s emerging in El Salvador: the “Bukele Model.” It’s the kind of dictatorship that doesn’t deny what it is. It celebrates it—with slick videos, neon lighting, and press conferences that feel like TED Talks.
And now, thanks to Trump, it’s getting a U.S. export licence.
The alignment is deliberate. Trump has long admired authoritarian leaders. But Bukele offers more than admiration—he offers a roadmap. Courts are optional. Press freedom is expendable. Elections can be redefined. All you need is a camera, a slogan, and the will to crush opposition while keeping the people entertained.
The man forgotten
Kilmar Abrego García remains locked in a prison he should never have seen. His lawyers call it Kafkaesque. But even Kafka assumed the state cared about appearances. Here, the injustice is deliberate, public, and proudly irreversible.
Trump’s America has found its ideological twin—and perhaps its future form—in Bukele’s El Salvador. A place where courts don’t count, prisons are promotional tools, and the rule of law comes second to the rule of content.
As the camera rolls, and the strongman struts in sneakers, the man at the centre of it all—García—is no longer the exception. He’s the blueprint.
And that’s exactly how the “world’s coolest dictator” wants it.
Last week, Bukele was welcomed to the White House not with wary diplomacy, but with something closer to brotherhood. The two leaders laughed, complimented each other, and grinned as if NATO never existed. Trump gushed: “One hell of a president.” Bukele, beaming, replied in kind. It was the kind of mutual admiration more common in mirror selfies than statecraft.
Forget the old alliances. Trump has found his ideological twin—anti-media, anti-court, and obsessed with optics over institutions. Their shared playbook? Crush dissent, rewrite laws, and stream the results with a slow-mo soundtrack.
The accidental prisoner: Kilmar Abrego García
Into this dangerous pageantry stumbled Kilmar Abrego García, a Maryland resident married to a U.S. citizen. Despite a 2019 court order protecting him from deportation, García was removed last month and thrown into El Salvador’s CECOT mega-prison—an institution more infamous for its brutality than its legality.
The Trump administration now calls it an “administrative error.” But instead of fixing it, they’ve shrugged. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio declared, “No American court can conduct foreign policy.” Trump, too, seems content to let the mistake fester. Asked whether he’d help bring García back, Bukele quipped: “What do you want me to do, smuggle him into the US?”
The situation has turned surreal. U.S. District Judge Paula Xinis ordered the government to “facilitate” García’s return. The Supreme Court upheld her. And yet, nothing. In this new authoritarian duet, the law is no longer the script—it’s the background noise.
Deporting due process
The White House meeting didn’t just seal García’s fate. It signalled something even bolder: Trump’s openness to sending U.S. citizens to foreign jails. “If it’s a homegrown criminal, I have no problem,” Trump said. “We’re studying the laws right now.”
The legality is murky. The Constitution likely has a few objections. But as one Trump aide put it, Pam Bondi is “looking into it.”
Bukele, meanwhile, has leaned into his role as America’s outsourced jailer. Since January, El Salvador has accepted over 200 deportees, including Venezuelans and others who’ve never set foot in the country. Some had no criminal records. Others were paraded shirtless and chained for state propaganda. A senior ICE official quietly admitted that many “have no criminal charges at all.”
Bukele framed it as public service: “You imprison them to liberate the 350 million.”
Bitcoin’s high priest in a prison state
Bukele isn’t just a prison impresario—he’s also a crypto evangelist. In 2021, he made Bitcoin legal tender, promising freedom from the banking elite through a slick app called Chivo. His dream? A volcano-powered “Bitcoin City” funded by billion-dollar crypto bonds.
Reality hit back. By 2024, fewer than 20% of Salvadorans used the Chivo wallet. The IMF forced him to strip Bitcoin of its tax perks. The bonds never materialised.
Still, Bukele clings to the narrative. El Salvador now holds over 6,100 Bitcoin, worth around $500 million. Whether that’s a brilliant hedge or a financial death spiral remains uncertain. But Trump, ever one for theatrics, loves it. Prisons, Bitcoin, memes—this is governance as clickbait.
A dictatorship you can stream
Both men rule not by policy, but by performance. Trump has Truth Social. Bukele has TikTok. Their governance is all vibes: jailhouse montages, gang crackdowns set to techno beats, Biden jokes and viral takedowns.
Bukele has gutted the judiciary, sidelined prosecutors, and slashed El Salvador’s legislature from 84 to 60 seats. His re-election was unconstitutional. He ran anyway. His emergency decree suspended basic rights and led to over 85,000 detentions. At least 400 people have died in custody.
And yet, his approval ratings remain above 80%.
Senator Chris Van Hollen, whose constituent García is still imprisoned, called the White House meeting “shameful.” But Trump, echoing Bukele’s propaganda, praised the gulag as a model of efficiency. The Constitution didn’t trend that day. Bukele did.
A model for tomorrow’s autocrats
There’s a name for what’s emerging in El Salvador: the “Bukele Model.” It’s the kind of dictatorship that doesn’t deny what it is. It celebrates it—with slick videos, neon lighting, and press conferences that feel like TED Talks.
And now, thanks to Trump, it’s getting a U.S. export licence.
The alignment is deliberate. Trump has long admired authoritarian leaders. But Bukele offers more than admiration—he offers a roadmap. Courts are optional. Press freedom is expendable. Elections can be redefined. All you need is a camera, a slogan, and the will to crush opposition while keeping the people entertained.
The man forgotten
Kilmar Abrego García remains locked in a prison he should never have seen. His lawyers call it Kafkaesque. But even Kafka assumed the state cared about appearances. Here, the injustice is deliberate, public, and proudly irreversible.
Trump’s America has found its ideological twin—and perhaps its future form—in Bukele’s El Salvador. A place where courts don’t count, prisons are promotional tools, and the rule of law comes second to the rule of content.
As the camera rolls, and the strongman struts in sneakers, the man at the centre of it all—García—is no longer the exception. He’s the blueprint.
And that’s exactly how the “world’s coolest dictator” wants it.
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