Costa Rica's decision to build a mega-prison modelled on El Salvador's controversial Cecot facility, announced by Justice Minister Gerald Campos on August 13, breaks sharply with the nation's democratic traditions and progressive criminal justice policies. The planned Centre for High Containment of Organised Crime, aptly dubbed as CACCO, may cement the country's departure from decades of emphasis on rehabilitation towards the punitive approach championed by Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele.

The $35mn project, which will house 5,100 inmates and expand prison capacity by 40%, comes just as Costa Rica grapples with unprecedented violence. Homicide rates reached 17.2 per 100,000 inhabitants in 2024, transforming what was once Central America's safest nation into another frontline in the region's drug wars. With elections looming in 2026 and public opinion polls consistently ranking insecurity as the primary concern, the government believes voters now demand dramatic action rather than incremental reform.

Worryingly, the security crisis has begun extracting an economic toll on the once-tranquil country. According to Nacion, the Costa Rican-American Chamber of Commerce reports that US companies considering investment are increasingly citing security concerns as a decisive factor, a sharp reversal from the country's traditional position as a stable regional haven. Where security assessments once showed Costa Rica firmly in the green, potential investors now view it as a liability rather than a neutral factor. Seven out of ten industrial companies rate the country as "unsafe" or "very unsafe", whilst US President Donald Trump's recent inclusion of San José amongst the world's most dangerous cities has amplified reputational damage. With 543 homicides recorded by mid-August 2025 and projections exceeding 900 by year's end, the erosion of Costa Rica's safe-haven status threatens its competitiveness in attracting foreign direct investment, a cornerstone of its economic model.

Minister Campos's rationale for the project lays bare the depth of the crisis facing Costa Rica's penal system. With facilities operating at 27% above capacity – among the worst overcrowding rates in the OECD – authorities have lost control over institutions where incarcerated crime bosses continue orchestrating operations from behind bars. The spectre of riots, hostage situations and internal conflicts, such as those that recently plagued Ecuador, has pushed policymakers towards solutions they might once have deemed unconscionable.

Costa Rica has already begun implementing Bukele's playbook of restrictions: intimate visits reduced to bimonthly encounters, family visits curbed to once per month, phone calls capped at ten minutes weekly, and personal deliveries restricted to monthly intervals. The reallocation of existing facilities has expanded maximum-security spaces from 80 to 1,000, a more than twelve-fold increase that fundamentally alters the character of the Costa Rican penal system.

Yet Costa Rica's embrace of the Cecot model comes as international scrutiny of the original facility intensifies. The 40,000-capacity Salvadoran prison has become a symbol of Bukele's authoritarian drift, with human rights organisations documenting systematic violations including torture, overcrowding, and denial of due process.

The irony is not lost on observers that as El Salvador's prison becomes a tool for hard-line US immigration policy under President Trump, with hundreds of migrants deported there under questionable legal authority, Costa Rica seeks to replicate the very model that international watchdogs condemn.

The financial arithmetic behind the project also raises questions about sustainability. Whilst the $35mn price tag represents savings from the initial $60mn estimate, thanks to Salvadoran technical assistance, the long-term costs of maintaining such a facility – both economic and reputational – remain difficult to gauge. Costa Rica, a well-functioning democracy, lacks the authoritarian infrastructure that allows Bukele – who has just abolished presidential term limits clearing the way for indefinite re-election – to operate Cecot with minimal transparency or accountability. And while the decision to classify project details as confidential suggests awareness of potential controversy, it does little to assuage concerns.

For a nation that got rid of its military in 1948 and has invested heavily in education and social programmes, the pivot towards tough carceral solutions marks a fundamental philosophical shift. The government insists rehabilitation programmes may continue for inmates engaged in education and vocational training, but such assurances ring hollow when the primary model explicitly prioritises containment over reform.

Meanwhile, the regional implications extend beyond Costa Rica's borders. If CACCO proves politically successful, reducing crime statistics whilst satisfying public demands for tough action, other Latin American nations facing similar security challenges may follow suit. This could entrench a new paradigm where mega-prisons become the default response to organised crime, abandoning decades of efforts towards restorative justice and prisoner rehabilitation.

Costa Rica's leaders argue they have little choice, that the collapse of the current system would unleash chaos that could destabilise the entire nation. However, by importing El Salvador's model wholesale, complete with its documented human rights violations and questions about long-term efficacy, Costa Rica risks trading one form of institutional failure for another. The construction of CACCO may address immediate capacity constraints, but it also embodies a vision of justice that previous generations of Costa Ricans would scarcely recognise.

As ground breaks on the facility this year, Costa Rica finds itself at a crossroads between its deep-rooted democratic traditions and the authoritarian temptations that have proven politically profitable elsewhere in the region. The success or failure of CACCO will determine not just the future of Costa Rica's justice system, but whether Bukele's iron-fist approach becomes the new normal across Central America. For a region already struggling with weak institutions and democratic backsliding, the stakes could hardly be higher.