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In a historic, high-security proceeding at El Salvador’s controversial Terrorism Confinement Center (CECOT) — the world’s largest mega-prison — hundreds of alleged members of the transnational criminal gang Mara Salvatrucha, better known as MS-13, appeared before the court this week to face charges of mass murder, torture and organized terror. On Thursday, Agence France-Presse reporters granted access to the restricted facility witnessed a stark scene: 220 defendants, all clad in matching white t-shirts and shorts, heads shaved, secured by chains, sat motionless and silent in orderly rows of plastic chairs arranged across CECOT’s main assembly hall. Hundreds of additional co-defendants joined the proceeding remotely from other blocks of the facility. Among those on trial are roughly 20 alleged high-ranking MS-13 leaders, including Borromeo Henriquez (known by the alias “The Little Devil of Hollywood”) and Carlos Tiberio Ramirez (“Snaider of Pasadena”), alongside dozens of mid-level gang lieutenants. Most defendants bore the gang’s signature tattoos across their faces, necks, hands and scalps, with some staring directly at visiting press as heavily armored security guards bearing riot shields formed a protective perimeter around the courtroom. Prosecutors allege the group collectively carried out more than 29,000 brutal killings across El Salvador over decades of gang rule. During Thursday’s testimony, graphic accounts of the gang’s violence played over the courtroom’s public address system. One witness recalled, “We burned her genitals and buttocks,” describing a targeted killing ordered by gang leadership. Additional testimony from two witnesses confirmed that MS-13 commanders continued to order murders from inside prison walls, even amid widespread state crackdowns. Prosecutors have directly linked the two top accused leaders to roughly 9,000 crimes, and the men showed no visible reaction as the chilling charges were read aloud. The mass trial is the centerpiece of Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele’s high-profile “war on gangs,” a sweeping security crackdown launched in 2022 that has seen more than 90,000 suspected gang members arrested under a prolonged state of emergency. Bukele, who has openly styled himself as the “world’s coolest dictator” in media appearances, has compared the CECOT mass trial to the Nuremberg Trials that prosecuted Nazi leadership after World War II. CECOT director Belarmino Garcia echoed the government’s framing, telling reporters, “These individuals caused mourning and pain to our society for many years.” A uniformed CECOT security agent, who spoke on condition of anonymity, added of the witness testimony: “It’s a horrifying account that makes your hair stand on end.” The Salvadoran government invited international journalists to observe the fourth day of proceedings, though access was tightly controlled under strict security protocols. For Bukele, the crackdown on gangs has proven politically transformative: supporters credit him with turning El Salvador from a nation once labeled the murder capital of the world into a safer country, and his hardline approach has become a template for right-wing political candidates across Latin America seeking to capitalize on widespread public anger over violent crime. Yet the mass trial and Bukele’s broader security campaign have faced sharp international criticism, particularly from human rights organizations that warn the sweeping dragnet of arrests has inevitably swept up thousands of innocent people, many of whom were detained for months before being cleared of any links to gangs. The process of mass trying hundreds of defendants at once has also raised alarms about due process violations. Controversy extends beyond El Salvador’s borders as well: Last year, former U.S. President Donald Trump authorized the transfer of 140 alleged Venezuelan gang members to be incarcerated at CECOT, a move that U.S. courts later ruled was unlawful. In 2021, U.S. authorities also leveled allegations that undermined Bukele’s carefully cultivated tough-on-crime image, claiming his administration held “covert negotiations” with MS-13 and other gangs, offering financial incentives in exchange for reduced gang violence and political support for Bukele’s ruling New Ideas party. The CECOT mega-prison, purpose-built to hold tens of thousands of suspected gang members, and the ongoing mass trial have become defining symbols of Bukele’s polarizing approach to public security, dividing supporters who hail his success in curbing violence from critics who warn the campaign is eroding democratic norms and civil liberties in the country.

Thirty-five years after the collapse of the Soviet Union left the five Central Asian states independent, a quiet erasure of Soviet-era architectural and artistic heritage is accelerating across the region, driven by a growing ideological shift away from Moscow and state-led efforts to cement distinct national identities.

In Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, one striking example of this trend sits on the facade of a soon-to-be-demolished apartment block: a massive mosaic honoring Soviet cosmonauts and engineers, celebrating the union’s mid-century scientific breakthroughs. Like thousands of other Soviet relics across Central Asia, the artwork is set to be destroyed to clear space for a luxury new residential development. Local resident Rakhmon Satiev told AFP he holds out hope the mosaic could be carefully removed and reinstalled at the new site, but that wish has little chance of being fulfilled.

Over the past decade, deliberate neglect and intentional demolition have gutted the region’s Soviet built heritage, from iconic architectural landmarks to public artworks including mosaics, frescoes, and monumental sculptures. “If a building is old and does not fit into the new city plan, it is torn down. The city is being rebuilt and renovated, and the past is vanishing,” Dzhamshed Dzhuraev, a prominent Tajik mosaic artist, explained in an interview with AFP. Behind his Dushanbe studio, a once-prominent monument to Soviet founder Vladimir Lenin stands hidden from public view, a relic of an era regional leaders now deem out of step with modern national narratives.

Following their 1991 independence, the five Central Asian former Soviet republics — Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan — have seen their urban landscapes transform into a disjointed mix of gleaming new high-rises, crumbling Soviet-era buildings, informal shanties, and half-finished construction projects. For preservation advocates, the rate of heritage loss is alarming. Altynai Kudaibergenova co-founded Artkana, one of the region’s few independent groups working to save Soviet-era architectural heritage in Kyrgyzstan. She says the number of destroyed monuments is “striking,” and warns that Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital, still holds dozens of magnificent examples of socialist-modernist architecture — a style that has grown popular with international tourists and design fans on social media — that are now at risk of demolition.

The widespread demolition is rooted in ideological change, as long-serving regional leaders have worked to position themselves as the founding fathers of new independent nations, prioritizing new symbols of national power over leftover markers of Soviet rule. Rarely do officials frame the campaign in explicit ideological terms, however. Even as the region balances enduring economic dependence on Russia with growing Chinese investment, government leaders cast the demolition drive as a practical, cost-effective measure. They argue that renovating aging Soviet-era structures is more expensive than building new developments from scratch, noting the region’s total population has grown to roughly 80 million, creating urgent demand for new housing.

In Dushanbe, where the mayor is the son of long-ruling president Emomali Rakhmon, the push for urban renewal has centered on replacing Soviet-era landmarks with symbols of the current government. Prominent Tajik sculptor Safarbek Kosimov told AFP that the city’s administration “is doing everything possible to make the buildings as beautiful and comfortable as he can,” adding that Soviet-era mosaics are simply “no longer necessary.” Portraits of the 73-year-old incumbent leader have already replaced many of the demolished Soviet artworks on public building facades across the capital.

Critics of the campaign say it erases important cultural history for private and political gain. “Most Soviet mosaics were designed to convey an ideological message, but their artistic value is also important,” preservation advocate Kudaibergenova said. “Unfortunately, businesses are rarely receptive to such considerations. Their main priority is selling square metres at a high price.” Multiple nonprofits and international monitoring organizations have documented widespread corruption and opaque collusion between government officials and real estate developers driving large-scale urban renewal projects across the region.

In Bishkek, local painter Erkinbek Bolzhurov is currently fighting to save the city’s historic House of Artists, which sits adjacent to the former national printing house — a structure that has already been reduced to nothing but its outer walls. “We want the city to develop, of course, but not at the expense of our memory,” he said. “Great artists worked inside these walls. That is what makes the building unique — it has a history.”

Across Central Asia, tight government control over public expression means authorities rarely consult local communities or preservation groups before approving demolition projects. Still, some artists hold out hope for a future shift in attitudes. Tajik mosaic artist Dzhuraev says he believes “the time will come” when public art like Soviet-era mosaics will again be valued as part of the region’s layered history. “Architects and urban planners should pay them more attention,” he said, adding that a revival of appreciation for this heritage is still possible.