SAN SALVADOR — Night after night, Sugey Amaya waits outside El Penalito, a holding facility on the outskirts of San Salvador where inmates are processed as they enter or leave El Salvador’s overcrowded prison system. Ms. Amaya, 29, has become a familiar presence at the site, offering assistance to recently released prisoners who are not permitted to leave unless someone is there to pick them up.

Her involvement began amid the government’s sweeping crackdown on gangs following a state of emergency declared in March 2022 by President Nayib Bukele. The move aimed to address pervasive violence by groups such as MS-13, which had long plagued the country. Within months, tens of thousands were detained under broad arrests intended to dismantle gang networks.

Since then, nearly 90,000 people have been imprisoned, although official figures indicate fewer than 10,000 have been released. Human Rights Watch notes that El Salvador now has one of the highest incarceration rates globally, with around 2 percent of the population—approximately one in 50 people—behind bars.

Ms. Amaya’s personal connection to the crisis is deeply felt. Her brother, Alexis Amaya, was detained in July 2022 while returning home from work. Accused of gang affiliation, he remains incarcerated at the Mariona prison, a facility many families struggle to locate due to restrictions on inmate contact, which include banishments on phone calls, visits, and correspondence.

As a result of the mass arrests, Salvadoran prisons have become severely overcrowded, with reports of inadequate access to basic necessities such as medicine, food, and hygiene supplies. Families often bear the financial burden of providing extra sustenance for their imprisoned relatives, sometimes selling possessions to afford these costs.

Ms. Amaya discovered shortly after her brother’s arrest that inmates released from El Penalito could not leave unless someone signed them out. Without hesitation, she began accepting the responsibility for strangers as well, providing clothing and ensuring they found transportation home. This informal support network has evolved into her primary occupation, sustained largely through donations from families across El Salvador and abroad, some as far as the United States.

Many of the men she helps are disoriented after prolonged detention, lacking money or contacts. One recent release had been held for nearly two years on charges related to false documents, despite living in Boston before visiting El Salvador. Others arrive during the night with no one to meet them; one man described Ms. Amaya’s presence as akin to “an angel.”

At times, she has offered temporary shelter to released inmates, though safety concerns eventually compelled her to stop. She does not inquire about individuals’ charges or backgrounds, seeing in every released prisoner the face of her brother. This empathy motivates her nightly vigil outside El Penalito.

Alongside her work, Ms. Amaya is pursuing law studies, inspired by her experiences and the desire to better understand the system incarcerating her brother. Despite never knowing when her brother might be released, she remains at the prison each night, gathering names and stories of those who pass through.

“The ones who come with me—I get to ask them, ‘Where were you held? How do they treat you all in there?’ It helps to understand my brother’s world,” she explains, holding onto hope that Alexis will one day walk free.