The Sacrifices We Make

In the last few days, I have been brutally forced to reflect upon the fact that my current place of residence is very violent and unsafe.  I live in Cuautitlán Izcalli, a suburb of Mexico City (you can find it on Google maps if you’re into hardcore homework avoidance).  In the last few years, violence has steadily increased in the country of Mexico as a whole, especially since 2006, when conservative president Felipe Calderón arrived in office.  He has waged a head-on battle with organized crime in general and drug traffickers more specifically, and due to the numerous deaths on both sides, the verdict is still out on who is winning.

Mexico today has been dubbed the “most violent country that is not currently involved in a civil war”; 17 people die of violent crime every day-- 1 person every 85 minutes.  It is also the home of the most violent city on Earth; Ciudad Juárez, which lies just across the border from El Paso, Texas.  In this city alone, more than 6,000 people were murdered last year.*  The daily news is full of grisly images and reports: Fifteen Slain in Tijuana; Entire Family Murdered and Their Bodies Quartered in Guerrero; Three Unidentified Bodies Discovered Dumped in Barrels of Acid; Decapitated Head of Man Discovered in Night Club—you get the picture.  It’s not pretty, and it seems like it just keeps getting uglier.  And this is a country in which it’s illegal to own a firearm!

And yet, even more repulsive than the violence itself is the fact that the society accepts it, and even adjusts to it.  When a person is killed, it’s “his or her fault” for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Journalists who have tried to investigate the drug war have been murdered; just last week a magazine editor was found murdered in the state of Baja California Sur.†

And the list goes on.  I have several friends who have had their cars stolen; one at gunpoint.  She told me it was a good deal, because the guy “just put a gun to my head, let me get out of my car, and took the keys”.  She is grateful that she didn’t get shot.  I have other friends who have been robbed, threatened at gunpoint, and even kidnapped.  One of my friends who was kidnapped was forced to take an unknown drug so that he wouldn’t be “with it” enough to know where his kidnappers took him.  Later, when his kidnappers got drunk, he managed to escape and called his parents from a payphone.  Close call.  Strangely enough, all of my friends who have had these experiences don’t seem too traumatized—they are just grateful that they didn’t pay the ultimate price.

Even my boyfriend (Erick) once found himself face-down on the floor at a gas station, with a gun to his back.  The aggressor grabbed his wallet, emptied the cash out of it, and ran.  Erick ran out of the gas station, saw some police, and told them he had just been assaulted at gunpoint and robbed.  They responded “Tough luck buddy, we’re from the next municipality over—this isn’t our turf.”  Both of the times I’ve heard him tell that story, he hasn’t left out the fact that when he realized the thing being pressed between his shoulder blades was a gun, he imagined himself dying right then and there.

This past Monday on the drive home from school, pulling up to a red light I saw two police officers on the corner of the intersection kicking a man who was already in a fetal position on the ground.  He obviously posed no threat to them, especially since he was extremely skinny—and the officers were both very “un-skinny”, armed, and wearing bullet-proof vests.  I was very offended and immediately grabbed a pen to write down their patrol vehicle number, and Erick (who was riding with me) stopped me, saying “Believe me, it’s not worth it.  If you report it, those officers won’t be punished.  Plus, you’ll only be putting yourself at risk because you never know if they’ll go after you.”  It was an affronting statement and one hard to ignore.  I put the pen away, conscience screaming and heart racing. 

Later that night, hugging each other and lying in bed before we fell asleep, Erick suddenly said, “You have no idea how it feels… it is one of the worst feelings in the world to know that this is the situation your country is in—and it is your country, your responsibility, even though you can’t fix it.  I love my country, but there are so many times when I don’t even know why anymore…”  I had no answer.  This is where I live, but I know that I have another country to call home.  No country is perfect, and everyone has to make sacrifices.  But there are some sacrifices that no human should ever be forced to make.

 

Elizabeth Lorenz
Alumni
Graduate Student, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México

 

*Data taken from a special report by TV Azteca (www.tvazteca.com)
†Reported by Milenio on January 25, 2010 (www.milenio.com)



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