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Nonfiction

A Report from Hell

By Carmen Boullosa
Translated from Spanish

The so-called “war on drugs” began five years ago. According to official sources, the victims—children, teens, adults, women, men—number roughly 50,000; other sources claim over 60,000 have died. Neither figure includes the tortured, the maimed, the kidnapped, the disappeared.

This war did not emerge out of nowhere.  It developed over the course of two decades, perhaps more, of government and police corruption, terrible social inequality, and the growth of illegal businesses, ever-stronger and better organized, which trafficked in humans (exporting workers to the north), arms (imported guns from the north) and, of course, drugs (those passed through from other countries and those “Made in Mexico”).  

On the other hand, the war’s genesis was tied to a very specific event in Mexican politics. When president Calderon declared war on drug dealers he had just been sworn into office. But he had won the election by only a tiny margin and a good part of the Mexican population did not believe the vote count was accurate. Mr. Lopez Obrador, the contender, had lost by a negligible number of ballots; he alleged fraud and declared himself the “legitimate president.”

It was in this context that the “other” legitimate president, President Calderon, launched his war. In part he hoped it would win the support of a clear majority of the country, and give him the legitimacy he lacked. He gave law enforcement agencies carte blanche and sent the army into the streets to purge the country of drug traffickers. 

The consequences of this decision have been staggering, and not just because of the mountain of corpses. The level of cruelty has been unimaginable. The vicious treatment of victims defies comprehension. Human rights activists are in danger, journalists are in danger, anyone who has the bad luck to get caught in the crossfire is in danger.  

The life of the entire society has changed drastically.

I never dreamed that Mexico would be like this when I entered my sixties. My generation was raised on stories of the Mexican Revolution and the Cristero War. Around dinner tables our grandparents—eyewitnesses—had talked of the cost of those eruptions, when the “bola”—the people—had risen and violence had spread like a raging sea. But we believed such violence was a thing of the past.

Mexico was stable. Free textbooks and official rhetoric touted the country’s richness. We needed only strong leadership to become a strong nation, it was said. The State was making the right choices, we were assured. Progress was inevitable (at least for those of my social class). We were confident, we were hope incarnate. 

We understood that Mexico had a lot of problems to deal with. Social inequality was a fact of life, but according to the campaign slogan of one president in the seventies: united, we would move “onward and upward.” Illiteracy and the marginalization of indigenous peoples were also issues—but these too could be tackled. 

There was also the problematic relationship between the sexes. A young woman in a miniskirt (such as myself) could not walk the streets without being harassed—whistled at, insulted, threatened. We embraced feminism and tolerance for other ways of life. 

Some people fought for these social causes.  My best friend, Alejandra Bravo Mancera, died in Central America, where she had volunteered to fight—a guerrillera—in Nicaragua and El Salvador, shortly after graduating from medical school. She was tortured and mutilated with blood-curdling “techniques” similar to those used in Mexico today, perhaps trained by the same military “technicians.”

During those decades, in corners of the country beyond reach of the public eye, the PRI (the party in power for the past seventy-five years) carried on a Dirty War, repressing rural and urban resistance. Their campaign was rendered invisible; the PRI controlled the press, screen and radio. It was only when the PRI was voted out of office that we learned that hundreds had been murdered or disappeared. 

We were convinced we would be able to fight such impunity of law enforcement agencies and that crimes against the population would become a thing of the past. We believed transparent elections and the creation of new parties could extract the scepter of power from the PRI. When we succeeded in evicting them, in 2000, the future seemed bright. 

But the prosperity that we thought the arrival of democracy would deliver didn’t appear. Crime flourished. Insecurity spread (especially in Mexico City). Kidnappings became daily occurrences. “Law enforcement agencies,” corrupted by money from drugs and other illegal businesses, offered no protection, indeed became part of the problem. 

Our dreams began imploding. 

Even so, we weren’t Colombia, a country devastated by guerrilla warfare, the drug trade and the war against it. That was where the real horrors took place; we Mexicans were far, far away from all that. In fact, as Fernando Escalante explains, the national murder rate consistently fell, year after year, from its 1992 peak of 19 murders per 100,000 inhabitants, until it reached 8 murders per 100,000 in 2007.

Then came the call to combat from President Calderon. In 2008, Escalante notes, “the trend of the previous twenty years reversed, and the murder rate soared.” In two years it went from 8 to 18 murders per 100,000—throughout the country, but particularly wherever army and police operations were most active.

From there, it was all downhill, straight to hell.

Because today Mexico is submerged in a hell. Newspapers report daily on bullets flying in bars, rehab centers, schools, churches, city streets. They report on severed heads and mass graves, too.

This is not a fight in the political arena; it is unlike anything we ever imagined.  The fighting among cartels, with fortunes lost and fortunes gained, has no civic agenda. Gangsters issue no proposals, have no ideals or ideology. What the torturers and murderers do to the massacred—mutilating them, raping them, dismembering them—drug trafficking and the war against it have done to our social agenda. They’ve smashed it.

The effects of this war have curdled Mexico. The work in this month’s issue of Words without Borders provides some insight into this horrible reality. The pieces I’ve selected are by poets, novelists, journalists who have approached the topic fearlessly. They have not made a spectacle or a circus of the violence, they are not trying to be trendy. This is not narco-literature.  It is literature pure and simple.  I hope it will bring you closer to a Mexico we never thought we’d witness, the one that exists today.

English Spanish (Original)

The so-called “war on drugs” began five years ago. According to official sources, the victims—children, teens, adults, women, men—number roughly 50,000; other sources claim over 60,000 have died. Neither figure includes the tortured, the maimed, the kidnapped, the disappeared.

This war did not emerge out of nowhere.  It developed over the course of two decades, perhaps more, of government and police corruption, terrible social inequality, and the growth of illegal businesses, ever-stronger and better organized, which trafficked in humans (exporting workers to the north), arms (imported guns from the north) and, of course, drugs (those passed through from other countries and those “Made in Mexico”).  

On the other hand, the war’s genesis was tied to a very specific event in Mexican politics. When president Calderon declared war on drug dealers he had just been sworn into office. But he had won the election by only a tiny margin and a good part of the Mexican population did not believe the vote count was accurate. Mr. Lopez Obrador, the contender, had lost by a negligible number of ballots; he alleged fraud and declared himself the “legitimate president.”

It was in this context that the “other” legitimate president, President Calderon, launched his war. In part he hoped it would win the support of a clear majority of the country, and give him the legitimacy he lacked. He gave law enforcement agencies carte blanche and sent the army into the streets to purge the country of drug traffickers. 

The consequences of this decision have been staggering, and not just because of the mountain of corpses. The level of cruelty has been unimaginable. The vicious treatment of victims defies comprehension. Human rights activists are in danger, journalists are in danger, anyone who has the bad luck to get caught in the crossfire is in danger.  

The life of the entire society has changed drastically.

I never dreamed that Mexico would be like this when I entered my sixties. My generation was raised on stories of the Mexican Revolution and the Cristero War. Around dinner tables our grandparents—eyewitnesses—had talked of the cost of those eruptions, when the “bola”—the people—had risen and violence had spread like a raging sea. But we believed such violence was a thing of the past.

Mexico was stable. Free textbooks and official rhetoric touted the country’s richness. We needed only strong leadership to become a strong nation, it was said. The State was making the right choices, we were assured. Progress was inevitable (at least for those of my social class). We were confident, we were hope incarnate. 

We understood that Mexico had a lot of problems to deal with. Social inequality was a fact of life, but according to the campaign slogan of one president in the seventies: united, we would move “onward and upward.” Illiteracy and the marginalization of indigenous peoples were also issues—but these too could be tackled. 

There was also the problematic relationship between the sexes. A young woman in a miniskirt (such as myself) could not walk the streets without being harassed—whistled at, insulted, threatened. We embraced feminism and tolerance for other ways of life. 

Some people fought for these social causes.  My best friend, Alejandra Bravo Mancera, died in Central America, where she had volunteered to fight—a guerrillera—in Nicaragua and El Salvador, shortly after graduating from medical school. She was tortured and mutilated with blood-curdling “techniques” similar to those used in Mexico today, perhaps trained by the same military “technicians.”

During those decades, in corners of the country beyond reach of the public eye, the PRI (the party in power for the past seventy-five years) carried on a Dirty War, repressing rural and urban resistance. Their campaign was rendered invisible; the PRI controlled the press, screen and radio. It was only when the PRI was voted out of office that we learned that hundreds had been murdered or disappeared. 

We were convinced we would be able to fight such impunity of law enforcement agencies and that crimes against the population would become a thing of the past. We believed transparent elections and the creation of new parties could extract the scepter of power from the PRI. When we succeeded in evicting them, in 2000, the future seemed bright. 

But the prosperity that we thought the arrival of democracy would deliver didn’t appear. Crime flourished. Insecurity spread (especially in Mexico City). Kidnappings became daily occurrences. “Law enforcement agencies,” corrupted by money from drugs and other illegal businesses, offered no protection, indeed became part of the problem. 

Our dreams began imploding. 

Even so, we weren’t Colombia, a country devastated by guerrilla warfare, the drug trade and the war against it. That was where the real horrors took place; we Mexicans were far, far away from all that. In fact, as Fernando Escalante explains, the national murder rate consistently fell, year after year, from its 1992 peak of 19 murders per 100,000 inhabitants, until it reached 8 murders per 100,000 in 2007.

Then came the call to combat from President Calderon. In 2008, Escalante notes, “the trend of the previous twenty years reversed, and the murder rate soared.” In two years it went from 8 to 18 murders per 100,000—throughout the country, but particularly wherever army and police operations were most active.

From there, it was all downhill, straight to hell.

Because today Mexico is submerged in a hell. Newspapers report daily on bullets flying in bars, rehab centers, schools, churches, city streets. They report on severed heads and mass graves, too.

This is not a fight in the political arena; it is unlike anything we ever imagined.  The fighting among cartels, with fortunes lost and fortunes gained, has no civic agenda. Gangsters issue no proposals, have no ideals or ideology. What the torturers and murderers do to the massacred—mutilating them, raping them, dismembering them—drug trafficking and the war against it have done to our social agenda. They’ve smashed it.

The effects of this war have curdled Mexico. The work in this month’s issue of Words without Borders provides some insight into this horrible reality. The pieces I’ve selected are by poets, novelists, journalists who have approached the topic fearlessly. They have not made a spectacle or a circus of the violence, they are not trying to be trendy. This is not narco-literature.  It is literature pure and simple.  I hope it will bring you closer to a Mexico we never thought we’d witness, the one that exists today.

Guerra a la guerra

Nunca imaginé que en mi edad madura mi país iba a estar en guerra.

La llamada “Guerra a las Drogas” comenzó hace cinco años. Los efectos han sido incontables. Los caídos -niños, jóvenes, adultos, mujeres, hombres-, son, según números oficiales, poco menos de cincuenta mil–otras fuentes citan más de sesenta mil-, sin contar los  desaparecidos, torturados, mutilados, secuestrados, tanto mexicanos como centroamericanos en tránsito hacia Estados Unidos.

Esta guerra no nació de la nada. Por una parte, se fue cultivando durante un par de décadas, si no es que más, si tomamos en cuenta la corrupción de las instituciones gubernamentales y policiacas, las abismales diferencias entre clases sociales, el crecimiento de fuerzas cada vez más organizadas y robustecidas dedicadas a comercios ilegales –la trata de personas (fuerza de trabajo de exportación, o de importación del sur y reexportación al norte), y las armas, traídas de la frontera norte, el tráfico de drogas producidas en otras latitudes y las Made in Mexico.

Por la otra,  la guerra está ligada  con un momento específico en la vida política de México y en su silla presidencial. La declaración fue promulgada por la Presidencia de México. Cuando el presidente declaró la Guerra al Narcotráfico, acababa de llegar a la oficina. Había ganado las elecciones por un margen minúsculo –y un buen porcentaje de mexicanos no creía en que éste fuera el “verdadero” resultado-. López Obrador, que no ocupaba el asiento por un muy corto margen de votos, habló de fraude y se declaró “Presidente legítimo”. En este contexto, el “otro” presidente legítimo, el Presidente Calderón, declaró la Guerra al Narcotráfico, confiado en que ésta le acarrearía aceptación de la mayoría. Calderón creyó le daría legitimidad y el músculo necesario para una buena gestión. Dio carta blanca a las policías, y echó el ejército salió a las calles, a “limpiar” de “narcotraficantes” el país. Lo que ha seguido a este impulso ha tenido proporciones espeluznantes. Por un lado, las cifras ya arrojadas aquí. Debe sumarse que el nivel de crueldad alcanzó lo inimaginable, el ensañamiento sobre las víctimas rebasa todo nivel, los activistas de los derechos humanos están en riesgo, los periodistas están en riesgo, y, quienquiera tenga la mala suerte de pasar cuando comience un fuego cruzado, también está en riesgo.

La vida social ha dado un vuelco.

Nunca imaginé que México llegaría así a mis sesentas. Mi generación creció con la memoria aún fresca de la Revolución Mexicana (la Guerra Cristera estaba menos identificada, unciéndose con la anterior). La violencia era un asunto del pasado. En las sobremesas se hablaba del costo de la Revolución: nuestros abuelos fue testigos, sobraban anécdotas; la “Bola” –el pueblo- se había alzado, y a mar revuelto había crecido la violencia. 

Los libros de texto gratuitos y la retórica oficial voceaban la cornucopia natural, la riqueza del país que había de administrarse para crear un país fuerte. Estables, sí, ya éramos. El Estado era  providente, el progreso era evidente (para mi clase social), se confiaba en que éramos un país con futuro. Éramos la esperanza encarnada. También la desigualdad social, era un hecho, pero todos juntos, como decía el slogan de un presidente de los setentas, íbamos “Arriba y adelante”.

No nos cabía duda de que México tenía muchas deudas pendientes –la mayor era la desigualdad entre clases sociales, el analfabetismo, la marginación de los pueblos indios-, pero existía la certeza, la posibilidad abierta.

Los problemas punzantes eran también de género (una mujer joven en minifalda como yo no podía desplazarse con libertad por las calles sin ser acosada, silbada, insultada, amenazada), pero eso lo íbamos a cambiar. Abrazamos las causas feministas, los cambios en la vida privada, la tolerancia para las diferencias sexuales. Algunos sí tomaron las causas sociales. Mi mejor amiga (Alejandra Bravo Mancera), apenas graduarse de médico, murió en la guerrilla centroamericana, donde había voluntaria a luchar, de Nicaragua al Salvador, donde murió torturada, mutilada, con “técnicas” de espeluzne que resuenan con las que hoy practican los asesinos en México –posiblemente entrenados por los mismos “técnicos” militares-.

En aquellas décadas, en los rincones más invisibles de las noticias, asomaba la Guerra Sucia mexicana, la represión, la guerrilla urbana y rural. Era una verdad que se escondía bajo las alfombras. No era paralela: se tornaba invisible. A pesar del esfuerzo de grupos aislados ciudadanos. Sólo a la salida del partido único en el poder (el PRI), supimos con claridad cuántos fueron los desaparecidos en la invisible guerra sucia. El número preciso aún se desconoce. El Comité Eureka habla de 557 entre 1969 y el 2001.  El informe “Histórico a la Sociedad Mexicana”[1] que firmó el Estado Mexicano en el 2006, precisa que en las décadas de los setentas y ochentas  “308 casos correspondieron a la zona rural y 174 a la zona urbana; adicionalmente, en el transcurso de las investigaciones se acumularon 50 casos más”.

Considerábamos necesaria la democracia. La exigencia de transparencia en las elecciones, la creación de partidos que quitaran el cetro al único partido que controlaba el poder desde hacía 75 años. Estábamos convencidos de que, con eso, combatiríamos la corrupción, se limpiaría la impunidad de los cuerpos policiacos, se abatiría el atropello contra los ciudadanos. Era nuestra apuesta.

En lugar del sueño, arribó la pesadilla.

Vista a la distancia, había ido ganando terreno silenciosa. Los cuerpos policiacos habían sido de temer –después del 68 quedó evidenciado que eran “enemigos del pueblo”-, judiciales, madrinas, cuerpos parapoliciacos. Los secuestros se volvieron a la orden del día, para los que los “cuerpos del orden” no ofrecían protección a las víctimas, sino todo lo contrario. El dinero del tráfico de drogas y otros comercios ilegales se colaba a los cuerpos policiacos.

Aún así, Colombia –un país devastado por la guerrilla, los narcotraficantes y el combate a la droga-, era donde ocurría el horror, nosotros en México estábamos muy lejos de éste.

Conforme nuestro sueño se evaporaba –el del cargamento que la llegada a la democracia debía traernos-, y las promesas de mejoramiento social que imaginamos paralelos se incumplían, el crimen y los comercios ilegales (así como sus nexos con las fuerzas “del orden”) se robustecieron. La percepción colectiva era de inseguridad, sobre todo en ciudad de México.

Pero el gran salto a la violencia vino después, con la Guerra al Narcotráfico. Fernando Escalante[2] habla de la caída en picada de la tasa de homicidios (“Entre 1990 y 2007 la tasa nacional de homicidios había disminuido sistemáticamente, año tras año; alcanzó un máximo de 19 homicidios por cada 100 mil habitantes en 1992, y a partir de entonces comenzó a bajar hasta llegar a un mínimo de ocho homicidios por cada 100 mil habitantes en 2007”), hasta que comenzó hace cinco años el combate “frontal”, emprendido por decisión presidencial. Sigo con Fernando Escalante: “en 2008 cambia la tendencia de los 20 años anteriores y aumenta la tasa nacional de homicidios de un modo espectacular. En dos años pasa de ocho a 18 homicidios por cada 100 mil habitantes. También es obvio que aumenta en casi todo el territorio, pero con perfiles muy distintos en unos estados y otros. En particular, el cambio más brusco, las tasas más altas aparecen en los estados en que hay operativos conjuntos “de alto impacto” en 2007.”

De ahí en adelante, el infierno.

Porque hoy México está sumido en un infierno. Las páginas de los periódicos hablan todos los días de fosas colectivas, rágafas de balas cayendo en bares, en centros de rehabilitación de drogas, en las calles de ciudades, a la salida de las escuelas o las iglesias.

Contra todo lo que imaginamos, no es una lucha en la arena política. El combate entre los carteles, las fortunas derramadas  y adquiridas, no tienen agenda cívica, propuestas, ideales o ideario. Lo que los torturadores o asesinos hacen a los cuerpos masacrados, mutilándolos, violándolos, desmembrándolos, ha hecho el narcotráfico y su “combate” con la agenda social. 

Los efectos de esta guerra han cambiado la atmósfera mexicana. De esto dan testimonio los textos que forman esta edición de WWB. Las páginas seleccionadas son de autores que han abordado de manera directa el tema. Poetas, narradores, periodistas. Convoqué a aquellos que no han hecho de la violencia un circo, un espectáculo, que no han comerciado con la marca. No es narcoliteratura. Es literatura. Deseo que sirva para acercarnos al México que no creímos ver llegar, el que hoy existe.


[1] http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB209/informe/intro.pdf

[2] Revista Nexos, http://www.nexos.com.mx/?P=leerarticulo&Article=1943189

 

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