South Carolina Woman Was Aiding Children of 85,000 Jailed Salvadorans. Then U.S. Support Vanished.

SAN SALVADOR — Julie Grier-Villatte wants to help the children of people jailed by El Salvador’s government. It is a humanitarian crisis that threatens to destabilize the country and send migrants traveling north to the U.S. border.

For more than a decade, an organization led by the Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, woman has helped El Salvador provide services to its vulnerable children. According to human rights nonprofit Cristosal, tens of thousands of Salvadoran youth have lost one or both parents to prison since 2022. That's when President Nayib Bukele declared a “State of Exception” — detaining people his government labeled criminals and suspending constitutional rights in order to curb gang violence.

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Three years of mass arrests have reduced the bloodshed that once engulfed the country, calming its streets and allowing business owners to keep money previously reserved for extortion payments. At the same time, the campaign reportedly swept up innocent people without a fair day in court. And it created a crisis of lost youth, with the El Salvador government trying to identify those boys and girls so officials can intervene if the children need help.

Whole Child International, where Grier-Villatte has been CEO since 2024, wanted to help El Salvador provide services for these lost children. But the Trump administration terminated the group’s contract while drastically cutting the U.S. Agency for International Development, which the White House deemed the poster child of waste, fraud and abuse. 

In March, Grier-Villatte traveled from Charleston to San Salvador to shut down her organization’s office, coordinate with government agencies and thank her now mostly jobless staff. The Post and Courier met her there.

“The way this activity was canceled does not reflect on you,” she told her employees in Spanish during a final lunch. “I can’t explain why we are here at this moment. There is no reason, really.”

USAID has a complicated history in El Salvador, according to Dartmouth College professor Jorge Cuéllar. He said the agency was a helping hand that provided food aid and developed critical infrastructure and other positive civil society-building efforts. USAID support was also siphoned off into the private sector and backed the country’s repressive security policies. Since 2001, USAID has provided more than half the $3.6 billion in American foreign assistance devoted to the country. 

Elon Musk and his Department of Government Efficiency ended that era after he spent a winter weekend feeding the agency, as he put it, "into the wood chipper.” Last fiscal year, USAID managed $35 billion. Supporters hailed the move as a blow against government excess. But critics say gutting USAID will eliminate lifesaving programs and relinquish American power abroad, especially as China builds influence and infrastructure projects around the world — including a hulking library, and soon a national stadium, in San Salvador. 

China's efforts have portended broader partnership between the two nations, including reports of the seeds of military cooperation. In the vacuum left by USAID, experts speculate China's influence in the region will grow.

At the same time, among those cheering the USAID cuts was El Salvador's president, Bukele, who leads a country of 6.8 million people that is roughly a quarter the size of South Carolina.

"While marketed as support for development, democracy, and human rights, the majority of these funds are funneled into opposition groups, NGOs with political agendas, and destabilizing movements," Bukele posted on X in February.

His government has assisted the Trump administration’s deportation efforts by holding people removed from the United States in the country’s Terrorism Confinement Center, or CECOT, a prison that can hold 40,000 people.

U.S. Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem visited the notorious prison on March 26. Standing before a backdrop of shirtless, sheared and tattooed men behind bars, she told the camera, “I also want everybody to know, if you come to our country illegally, this is one of the consequences you could face. First of all, do not come to our country illegally. You will be removed, and you will be prosecuted.”

On the same day Noem issued her warning, Grier-Villatte met with Salvadoran government officials. They want to help the boys and girls of parents behind bars. But the government is struggling to even identify these children. The government had looked to Whole Child as a partner. The organization had aspirations to expand the country’s feeble foster care system so orphaned children could have a semblance of family.

Instead, the canceled contract forced Grier-Villatte to slash about 80 percent of her staff, leaving El Salvador’s missing children without another resource. 

Another generation of lost children

Kara Wilson-García remembers a 12-year-old girl sobbing on the way home to her family. Wilson-García was driving the girl and her siblings there from an orphanage. It was 2011, and the girl's parents had sold her into sex trafficking.

A few days later, Wilson-García drove back. She found the girl and her siblings unfed, unbathed and lice-ridden.

“It was obvious that it was a terrible decision to send these kids to live with the family,” the native Texan said.

Wilson-García runs Project Red, an organization that provides social services, mental health and economic support to vulnerable Salvadoran families. At that point, over a decade ago, she was just getting started and had a small office within a government building.

After visiting the home again, she recommended that the government remove the children. Officials responded by kicking her out of the building.

El Salvador had just passed legislation that prioritized family care over orphanages, a movement known as deinstitutionalization. International benefactors such as UNICEF and the U.S. Congress were among those to direct foreign aid to support family-centered policies. In the decade after passing the law, around 4,500 children were removed from orphanages, a study commissioned by Whole Child found. 

Over five years, 57 Salvadoran orphanages closed, accounting for almost two-thirds of such institutions in the country. Wilson-García recalls officials trashing those children’s case files. There was no protocol to follow up on these kids. Some lived in abusive situations. Others were murdered by gangs. A number of children fled to the U.S. 

“These policies do not always center the well-being of children, and we see that in the consequences,” said Judith Perrigo, a University of California, Los Angeles, professor who was lead author of the study.

Whole Child started working in El Salvador during the early stages of this deinstitutionalization effort. Karen Spencer founded the organization in 2004 in response to international charities' opposition to orphanages. Spencer, a countess who married into the British royal family in 2011, said family care, like fostering or adopting, is preferable to orphanages. But deinstitutionalization put children in vulnerable situations.

Spencer started her organization because she thought reform was the better solution.

In 2018, Whole Child began contracting with USAID, a relationship Spencer sought because they were the largest funder in the region. A year later, Bukele rode a populist streak to the presidency. His signature policy would create a child care crisis, and Spencer's group would be more needed than ever.

A 'firm hand' with gangs

Bukele became known for his "mano dura" (firm hand) approach to politics, and highly produced social media videos. He once called himself the "world’s coolest dictator."

He remained popular even after scandal surfaced during his first term. Local news outlet El Faro found that his administration had negotiated secretive deals with gangs to tamp down homicides and garner electoral support. In 2021, the U.S. Treasury Department imposed sanctions on three top officials for their gang associations. Yet his approval rating that year never dipped below 75 percent.

His signature policy initiative began in March 2022. In a remarkably bloody weekend, gangs murdered 87 people in three days. Bukele declared the State of Exception, empowering police to arrest anyone suspected of gang association. The policy allowed law enforcement to withhold the reason for these arrests and suspended the rights of those accused to access legal counsel.

Three years later, more than 85,000 people have been jailed and the policy remains in place. The government says homicides have plummeted, ushering in a new era of tranquility.

Today, there is little to no sign of violence on the streets of San Salvador. Elderly men and women sip soupy oatmeal and black coffee from tiny Styrofoam cups in Plaza Libertada. Pink-clad women gyrate during an early evening Zumba class in a park bandshell. Businesses no longer need to set aside money to pay off gangs.

Against the backdrop of a volcano that erupted in 1917, the capital bustles with cars driving aggressively down its curving streets, and vendors sell pupusas, or cheese-stuffed griddle cakes, from the sidewalks. Pigeons flee a gleeful child giving chase in front of the National Library, where a teen in a red soccer jersey rolls by on a bike.

Life in El Salvador is far from perfect. Almost 1 in 4 people lives in poverty, according to the World Bank. Nearly half the population lives in a form of food insecurity, a United Nations tally found. Bukele's government has acknowledged that thousands of innocent people were imprisoned in its campaign to eliminate gangs.

Orphaned children, slashed funding

In the early stages of the mass-arrest campaign, a 16-year-old became a mother, a detainee and then effectively an orphan.

Police arrested her and her parents days apart. She was soon released with her newborn son. Her mom and dad remained in prison.

After fleeing a dangerous living situation, the teen stayed with her grandmother, according to her case file. Her new home does not have a sink, kitchen or flushing toilet.

In one sense, the girl is unique, even lucky. Social services officials know who she is and where she is.

That isn't the case for all of the displaced children.

Among those attempting to locate these kids is Linda Amaya de Morán, the executive director of a Salvadoran child protection agency. Sitting across a long conference table from Grier-Villatte, facing portraits of Bukele and the first lady, Morán described a three-pronged process to identify the lost boys and girls, including relying on the judicial system and census information.

The government and nonprofits chase clues and referrals to find these scattered children. Morán said judges will ask defendants if they have children. Neighbors, schools and health clinics refer cases to Wilson-García’s organization, which learns about arrested parents after some investigation. Each lead is one step closer to identifying the children, located among the curving and hilly streets of San Salvador, or among communities tucked in the country’s rural, mountainous terrain.

Nevertheless, Morán applauded the mass arrests. Through a translator, she likened cracking down on gangs to “(trimming) the fat to get to the actual muscle.” Without gangs in communities, she said, El Salvador could reconstruct the social fabric and develop a culture of peace.

The children who nonprofit leaders and Morán know about live with neighbors, family members or in one of the country's remaining orphanages. Some will be adults soon, and Morán said the government needed to intervene while they could still help. Others may fall victim to sex trafficking or cartels should they attempt traveling to the U.S. 

Salvadoran migration accelerated in the late 20th century during a brutal civil war, which the U.S. influenced with military and economic assistance. By 2022, 1.4 million Salvadorans lived in the U.S., the fifth-largest immigrant group in the country, created by people fleeing economic uncertainty, violence or trying to join their families, according to the Migration Policy Institute, a Washington D.C.-based think tank. Since the State of Exception, federal tracking shows Salvadoran migration has slowed.

The U.S. had long tried to help governments in Mexico and Central America stem the tide of gangs. Under President George W. Bush, the U.S. began an initiative that funded efforts to disrupt organized crime. This evolved during the Obama administration, which believed international assistance was necessary to address issues that spurred migration to the United States. Donald Trump scaled back funding for this program during his first term as president. It was revived and rebranded under President Joe Biden, who committed $4 billion to address root causes of migration.

It was against this foreign policy backdrop that Whole Child lost its $4 million contract through USAID. Among the organization’s plans was to train social workers to identify situations that need intervention, develop a case management system and expand foster care capacity.

“Many of those programs that could have been helping reduce irregular migration now counterproductively increase those conditions for migrants to begin to move,” said Ariel Ruiz, an analyst with the Migration Policy Institute.

Whole Child also wanted to provide financial assistance to Wilson-García’s nonprofit, Project Red. Their partnership would have funded support services for about 17 families affected by the State of Exception.

Receiving such services is Bessy Ramírez, who lives in the formerly gang-ridden town of El Congo. The 32-year-old takes care of four children. She took in two kids from her sister after neighbors complained about abuse, and one landed in the hospital after falling from a tree. If she didn't take care of the children, they would have gone to an orphanage.

Ramírez stopped attending school after sixth grade, a decision she regrets because she now can’t help her kids with their homework. Project Red helped build her house, provided counseling services to her sister’s children and taught her business practices. She now owns a small snack shop. Her customers are neighbors and friends.

“It helped me become more independent,” she said through an interpreter. She has grown her inventory since opening, saying that she reinvests all her profits.

But now, Whole Child doesn't have the money to partner with Project Red. Instead, Grier-Villatte asked Wilson-García for fundraising tips. Morán called Whole Child a strategic partner and ally — the organization has helped her agency strengthen its response to the massive challenges it faces. 

The loss of USAID funds took everyone involved by surprise, including Spencer. Whole Child's founder said she was "stunned."

"It wasn't really within the realm of what we thought was possible," she said. "For most people, a three-year USAID contract is a fairly safe bet."

After Whole Child packed up shop, Morán’s agency received some of the group's leftover desks and chairs. Whole Child, like other organizations, must now adapt without USAID. Grier-Villatte's future is unknown.

Mental health without borders

Grier-Villatte, 43, was born in Savannah to military parents. She spurned other private institutions to attend the College of Charleston because she received a generous financial aid package and called it “the best thing I ever unwillingly did.”

Grier-Villatte studied French and psychology, following a lifelong fascination in mental health sparked by her father’s scars from Army combat and her mother’s lifelong challenges. Her mom died of suicide three and a half years ago.

She accepted her first job overseas when she was 25, working as a mental health coordinator at a refugee camp in eastern Chad that was filled by people escaping the genocide taking place in the Darfur region of Sudan. Her time was cut short when rebels from across the Sudanese border attacked and she escaped.

She moved to Haiti, for work and love. Grier-Villatte was in her kitchen on Jan. 12, 2010, when a massive earthquake struck, killing more than 222,000 people. She avoided injury and eventually flew home to the United States.

In the coming years, Grier-Villatte would spend time with the U.S. State Department and USAID. She served in Washington, Cambodia, El Salvador, Mexico and Uganda, where she was the office director for education, youth and child development during the COVID-19 pandemic. Along the way, she gave birth to her son.

In 2024, Grier-Villatte returned to Charleston on a sabbatical from USAID and became the CEO of Whole Child so she could continue paying the bills. She also believed in its mission.

Grier-Villatte views USAID as an imperfect agency, frustrated by bureaucratic hurdles, futile success metrics and large organizations that receive millions to roll out cookie-cutter, ineffective programs. But she also helped implement efforts that addressed society’s most-pressing issues.

“I had thought I would go back to the foreign service and finish my career, eventually retire from the foreign service, but there’s nowhere to go back to,” she said.

The Trump administration has upended both her professional and personal life. Even though her husband, a native of Haiti, holds a green card, he is worried about encounters with immigration enforcement. An elderly family member had to flee Haiti after gang members started knocking on their door. A protected status now revoked, they must leave the U.S.

Grier-Villatte is considering a move to Canada, a country she has never visited.

In the minutes before she gave her final speech to former Whole Child staff, she was still sorting through what she would say. 

Asked if she felt guilty, she said, "yes, of course."

"It's my government."

The children left behind

Whole Child will continue in El Salvador in a limited form. The scale of its work will depend mostly on private donors, as organizations across the world face a similar reality. 

With its USAID funding, it would have worked with Project Red to help more people like Bessy Ramírez.

Taking care of four children in a one-room home, Ramírez creates privacy by cordoning off her bed with an array of colored sheets. On the other side of the room, beyond the L-shaped couch covered with blankets, are four beds for the children. Two are bunked. Above each are furled mosquito nets, which protect the kids while they sleep.

On a Thursday afternoon, Ramírez's kids bounded home from school. The youngest boy was out of breath from his run back. Still wearing his school uniform, and clearly accustomed to hamming for his family, he complained he was tired even though he just completed a half day. Eventually, the kids sat quietly on two beds while their mom spoke with a reporter. They would wait outside during the sensitive parts of the interview.

During a lunch break, Ramírez's eldest daughter sheepishly tried her English in front of the reporter. Just a few years ago, this girl was monosyllabic. Sometimes she cried. Ramírez tried to prompt her to say what was wrong, "Tell me so I can help you," she used to say, but the girl wouldn't speak. For Ramírez, not knowing what was happening inside of the girl's mind was frustrating. She only learned that the girl's mother used to hit her after her younger sister let on about the abuse.

The girl dealt with her demons after receiving counseling from Project Red. Now she focuses on school, goofing around with her siblings and helping Ramírez with her store.

"I want her to be an independent girl. That no one dares to harm her," Ramírez said.

Left behind are the children trying to recover from the scars created by police ripping their parents away. Now, they will need to heal without USAID funding organizations like Whole Child and Project Red.

Among the traumatized children is a boy who lives along the outskirts of San Salvador in La Gloria, a low-income community with houses set aside a polluted river. When the boy was 9, he was on his way home from school when police arrested his father, a bricklayer, in front of his eyes.

His grandfather, Simón Rivera, scrambled to pick up the boy while he waited in police custody.

The boy hasn't seen his father in nearly three years. In the days after the arrest, Rivera said, his grandson no longer played outside, where he used to ride a tricycle. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night, crying. 

He will need to process what he has seen — and what was taken away.

Salvadoran journalist Gerson Nájera and The Associated Press contributed to this report.