“There are profound ethical questions that this move would signal about how we treat human beings who are U.S. citizens. Courts will almost certainly prevent this from happening.” That’s Lauren-Brooke Eisen, senior director of the Justice Program at the Brennan Center, and her words echo a growing chorus of legal experts and civil rights advocates who are sounding the alarm over President Trump’s latest proposal: deporting U.S. citizens convicted of crimes, even those born on American soil.
The idea, floated repeatedly by Trump in 2025, has ignited a fierce debate. During a tour of a migrant detention center in Florida, Trump didn’t mince words: “They’re not new to our country. They’re old to our country. Many of them were born in our country. I think we ought to get them the hell out of here, too, if you want to know the truth.” He added, “So maybe that will be the next job.” The proposal isn’t just talk. Trump has openly mused about sending U.S. citizens—so-called “homegrowns”—to prisons in El Salvador, and he’s tasked Attorney General Pam Bondi with studying whether it’s even legal. “If we had the legal right to do it, I would do it in a heartbeat,” Trump said, underscoring his administration’s determination to push the boundaries of existing law (ABC News).
But here’s the catch: Deporting U.S. citizens is not just unprecedented—it’s almost certainly unconstitutional. Federal law, specifically 18 U.S.C. § 4042, requires the Bureau of Prisons to provide for the safekeeping and care of all persons convicted of federal crimes, and there’s no provision for shipping them off to foreign prisons. Legal scholars from across the spectrum have weighed in, with David Bier of the Cato Institute stating flatly, “There’s no authority in any U.S. law to deport U.S. citizens and certainly not to imprison them in a foreign country” (NPR).
The constitutional hurdles are massive. The Eighth Amendment prohibits cruel and unusual punishment, and experts point out that El Salvador’s mega-prison, CECOT, is notorious for harsh conditions—no education, no recreation, and allegations of torture. “Sending American citizens to serve their sentences in a prison outside of the United States would violate the U.S. Constitution,” Eisen told CBS News. The logistical problems are just as daunting: How would incarcerated Americans access legal counsel, appeal their convictions, or maintain family connections from thousands of miles away? (CBS News)
So what’s fueling this push? The answer lies partly in a new Department of Justice memo, signed by Assistant Attorney General Brett Shumate, which gives federal attorneys wide latitude to pursue denaturalization—revoking citizenship from naturalized Americans who committed certain crimes, including war crimes, terrorism, and serious fraud. The memo directs DOJ attorneys to “prioritize and maximally pursue denaturalization proceedings in all cases permitted by law and supported by the evidence” (National Law Review). While denaturalization has existed for decades, it’s always been reserved for exceptional cases—think Nazi collaborators or those who lied on their citizenship applications. Now, the net is widening, and critics warn it’s creating a “second class of U.S. citizens” who can never truly feel secure in their status (NPR).
Historically, the U.S. has flirted with denaturalization during times of crisis—most notoriously during the McCarthy era, when tens of thousands lost their citizenship over suspected communist ties. But the Supreme Court stepped in, ruling in 1967 that such practices were “inconsistent with the American form of democracy, because it creates two levels of citizenship,” as Case Western law professor Cassandra Robertson explains. Since then, denaturalization has been rare, but the Trump administration’s aggressive new stance is reviving old fears.
Internationally, stripping citizenship as punishment isn’t unique to the U.S. Several European countries, including the UK, France, and the Netherlands, allow revocation for terrorism or serious crimes—but almost always only for dual nationals, to avoid statelessness, and with robust procedural safeguards (ICCT). The European Court of Human Rights has upheld some of these laws, but only when they serve a legitimate purpose and respect human rights. Even so, critics argue that these measures create a “forever conditional citizenship,” disproportionately affecting immigrants and minorities (Oxford Academic).
The U.S. model, rooted in common law, has always treated citizenship as a secure, reciprocal bond between individual and state. As legal historian Viscount Finlay put it, even a subject who commits treason “remains for all purposes a British subject and must be treated as such in every respect,” a principle echoed in American jurisprudence (Cambridge Law Quarterly).
Today, as Trump’s proposals test the boundaries of constitutional law and American identity, the debate is about more than policy—it’s about what it means to be a citizen, and whether that status can ever be truly unconditional. The stakes couldn’t be higher, not just for those at risk, but for the very fabric of American democracy.
