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Posts Tagged ‘drug trafficking’

September 15, 2010

I refused to let Mexico’s 200th anniversary pass me by.

Yes, the country is in the worst state I’ve ever seen. People are dying horrific deaths. There is no justice. Corruption abounds and people live in fear. Life is not the same.

Local cartoonist, Jose Luis Gonzalez, plays the part of Padre Hidalgo and shouts the cry of independence before his neighbors.

One can easily and rather bitterly say, “There’s nothing to celebrate in Mexico right now.” I agree, but at the same time I don’t.

I celebrate the Mexico I know exists underneath the bloody muck that’s choking the country right now. I celebrate the Mexico I grew up in– on holy week at the springs near my great grandmother’s town and summer vacations playing with my cousins in the plaza. I celebrate the colorful and exciting culture of a people born from a meztizaje of Spanish and indigenous roots. I celebrate Mexico’s beautiful landscapes, her spectacular deserts, her mystic waterfalls, and breathtaking beaches.

We must not forget this Mexico, because this is the Mexico we have to fight for. If we don’t remember her and celebrate her, where are we supposed to draw the inspiration or strength to continue the fight? To me, not celebrating is like giving into the evil. I don’t want to give in. I want to fight for Mexico.

So I celebrated Mexico’s bicentennial. I chose to celebrate the country’s 200th anniversary in Ciudad Juarez at a simple fiesta organized by a local neighborhood association. I had the honor of being accompanied by poet and writer Benjamin Alire Sanez. He barely hesitated when I extended the invitation. Ben preferred to celebrate at a small neighborhood fiesta than accept a haughty invitation from the Mexican consulate in the United States.

“I want to be in Mexico,” he told me. Que hermoso.

I was certainly happy to have his company. After all, beneath my fighting spirit I was scared. I was terrified of driving back home from the fiesta on the deserted streets of Juarez in the early morning hours. But there was no way that was going to stop me. I was headstrong about celebrating.

The entrance into the neighborhood association.

Ben and I arrived at the entrance to the neighborhood association, a wrought iron gate decorated with a Mexican flag and barbed wire. A guard asked what was our business then took down my name and an ID. We continued through the gates wondering just how capable these apparently unarmed guards were of truly protecting the neighborhood.

The fiesta was in a park a few blocks behind the entrance. Red, green and white streamers were hung across the length of a concrete basketball court. Underneath, tables and chairs were set up where families sat, laughed and chatted. To the right was a space for karaoke. Behind it, a jumping balloon and a tent under which kids and grandmas were playing loteria, a game similar (but far more fun) than American Bingo.

Ben and I spent most of our time on the other end of the basketball court where women in frilly blouses and aprons were cooking all kinds of Mexican antojitos. There were enchiladas, taquitos, corn in a cup and pastel de tres leches.

Shortly after stuffing ourselves with a heavenly plate of red enchiladas, an elder man called everyone’s attention. It was time for el grito, or the traditional cry for independence, given at 11 pm on September 15. The man who gave el grito is a cartoonist for one of the local papers. He would tell me after the ceremony that he was chosen for el grito because of his physical likeness to Father Hidalgo, the rebel priest that who gave the original grito back in 1810.

The cartoonist’s words were inspiring.

“We gather to celebrate our independence,” he said. “We may have locked ourselves up but it is still our independence. This is the first event where can see solidarity between us as neighbors. Here’s to our unity spreading and leading us to a better future.”


Neighbors forget their sorrows for a moment and celebrate Mexico's bicentennial.

The neighborhood association is only six months old. Prior to its existence, people only knew a small handful of their neighbors. Now there are 140 households who actively participate and interact with each other.

“We came together because of the terrible violence,” the cartoonist later told me. “But out of a disgraceful situation our people have responded with solidarity.”

It’s true there is no cause to celebrate in Mexico right now, he said. But we can’t live our lives in constant tension, he said. So we organized this fiesta so families could spend time outside, interact with their neighbors and forget for a second the situation under which we live. We need it to lift our spirits.

I agreed with his words. Looking around me I saw joy and ease in people’s faces. It was easy to forget that we were in the middle in one of the most violent cities in the world. We enjoyed the warm night, the food and the music. And we were able to taste again that Mexico we all adore.

Benjamin Alire Sanez and I celebrating with a family in Ciudad Juarez.

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July 19, 2010

I held a microphone in one hand and a drippy strawberry ice cream cone in the other. At the opposite end of the microphone was a 24-year-old gangster with a shaved head and a tear drop tattooed on the corner of his eye. We were sitting in an outdoor pizza parlor in the garden of the Azteca wing in the Juárez municipal jail. Yes, you read correctly, a pizza parlor and a garden in jail.

The Juárez jail is not a minimum security facility. Most are locked up here while their cases go through judicial proceedings. But people are also here serving time for murder. The entire cell block we visited is filled with dangerous gang members. When greeting a pair of American reporters, though, most of them seemed as tame as kittens.

Inmates in the Azteca wing of the Juarez jail hang outside their cell buildings.

For this visit, I was tagging along with NPR’s Mexico City correspondent. We arrived just before lunch under a blazing desert sun and 100-degree weather. I went to the jail with the expectation that it wouldn’t be like any jail in the United States. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the laid back, almost festive atmosphere. Despite being surrounded by thugs and killers I felt safer inside the jail walls than outside in the city.

In the Azteca wing, the grounds and cell buildings were incredibly neat and clean. It felt more like a neighborhood than a jail. There were concrete benches and tables each shaded by a canopy, in-house restaurants, an art workshop, a vegetable garden and classrooms. The inmates are free to move in and out of their cells during the day. Women and children, usually family members, wander the grounds as do ducks, geese and goats.

The young man we interviewed was a gun smuggler from El Paso, a U.S. citizen in a Mexican jail. He said he wasn’t the only one. His job was to cross guns over the border from El Paso into Juarez. He didn’t get or buy the guns himself, that job belongs to someone else.  One day he was caught on the Mexican side of the international bridge and ended up in jail.

“This is the life I chose,” he said. No regrets.

As soon as he gets out, he said he’ll go back to the same life. He doesn’t have a choice, really. Used to be that the only ways out of a gang was by turning to God or death. Not now, he said, with the ongoing “war” between different drug cartels it’s all hands on deck. The Azteca gang, which he is a member of, is allied with the local Juárez drug cartel.

An inmate at the CERESO jail in Ciudad Juarez sits in his cell.

The Aztecas are the Juárez branch of the Barrio Aztecas, a gang founded by El Paso inmates in a U.S. federal prison. The young man we interviewed was recruited into the gang when he was 17 and serving time in a Texas prison. He said the reason he joined was more about protection than free will. The Juárez Aztecas and the El Paso Barrio Aztecas typically work together. Members have a special wing in the Juárez jail to avoid conflict with rival gang members incarcerated in other areas.

While we interviewed the El Paso gangster, other inmates brought us each a double scoop of ice cream in a large sugar cone. It was a strange situation to be in, sitting in the municipal jail of one of the most dangerous cities in the world, interviewing a gangster, licking an ice cream cone.

When we left the jail we didn’t marvel too long on the leisurely atmosphere of the place. Our thoughts lingered on the gun smuggler from El Paso and on how this drug war could only be possible with cooperation from both sides of the U.S./Mexico border.

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