Back in 2012 I started actively chronicling events in Mexico, as I researched my novel series. What struck me was how little of those events filtered up to mainstream Canadian and US newscasts. The rare reports of murders typically centered on tourists. More importantly, the story behind the story was not being told.
The awful truth was that the death toll in Mexico was equivalent to that of a warzone, particularly in cartel hotspots along the USA-Mexico border, like Juarez, which held the dubious distinction of being the most deadly city in the world. The tragedy came in who died in the slaughter: law enforcement officers, journalists, and ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire of a battle for control over Mexico by the cartels.
In North America, our impression of organized crime has largely been formed by what we watch in movies and on television. “The Godfather” and Tony Soprano make the Mafia more palatable, even appealing. Of course, there is also the Russian Mafiya, again made dangerously attractive through feature film and television, and Asian triads. But the Mexican cartels have no such hold over us, and have had relatively little exposure until recently. For the most part, the face of the Mexican cartels belongs to Juan Guzman, “El Chappo”, head of the Sinaloa cartel and a legendary crime figure. One only has to hear the stories of how he escaped prison in a laundry hamper; closed restaurants and rewarded the patrons there by buying their meals; and though everyone knows of his stronghold in Mexico, has never been found.
The reality is that Sinaloa has been the most powerful cartel in Mexico, under Guzman’s indisputed control. He directs the decisions and actions of countless high-ranking officials in politics and law enforcement, including the military. But the balance of power changed in 2010 when the Gulf Cartel splintered, and their armed enforcement component, Los Zetas, struck out on their own. Cutting a swath of violence across the country, these highly trained assassins sought to take their share, and more, of Mexico. And that meant taking control away from both the Gulf Cartel and Sinaloa. At stake were the lucrative border cities of Laredo and El Paso, where the vast majority of drugs were transported into the US. Also at stake was the Pacific coastline, where shipments of precursor chemicals used to make meth were coming in via boatloads from China. Control of the drugs meant control of the country.
In 2006, ex-president Phillipe Calderone declared war on the cartels, combatting them directly with police and the military. But he failed to appreciate the reach of the cartels, or how widespread, systemic corruption had made its way through all levels of government and into law enforcement and the military, making control by the cartels inevitable and devastating. Calderone’s efforts were the equivalent of throwing kerosene on a fire. Cartel reprisal was swift and merciless: entire families paid for the sins of the fathers. No one wanted to work in law enforcement. Journalists reported on anything but cartel activity. Even political officials who refused to accept a bribe met the same fate. There were mass graves; bodies hung from overpasses with crudely-made banners or “narcomantas” declaring victory and control one of the cartels.
Across the border from the United States, a country was being consumed by violence and crime at a scale unimaginable. Yet there was almost no news coverage. And what struck me was how vulnerable the rest of North America was. Because the reach of the cartels crossed the border with every shipment of drugs, extending their control into the supposedly safe and secure bastions of the US and Canada.
Issues and Intersections 