A Civilian-Led Solution to Addressing Cartels
In August, on the eve of the International Day of the Disappeared, María del Carmen Martínez sits alone in the house her daughter, Ofelia, bought with the money she earned working as an undocumented immigrant at a restaurant in Houston. Beside her is a tarp featuring her daughter’s face, which she will carry for hours tomorrow as she advocates for her daughter and others who have gone missing during a Day of the Disappeared march.
Ofelia, then 25, had just moved into her new home in the northern Mexico town of San Pedro de las Colonias when she vanished in 2007. A shootout between law enforcement and the Los Zetas drug cartel occurred that night, but no one knows what happened to Ofelia. Though 17 years have passed, this is the first time Martínez dared to protest her daughter’s disappearance. “I waited two years to report it,” says Martínez. “People were being murdered in San Pedro every day. If you dared to file a report, you risked being shot.”
Around 9 a.m. the following morning, a group of about 40 mothers began marching through San Pedro de las Colonias, chanting “Alive you took them! Alive we want them!”
Since the Mexican government declared war on drug cartels in December 2006 and deployed thousands of troops, widespread violence has ensued, leading to a surge in homicides, extortion, forced displacement, femicides, and disappearances. Since 2006, there have been more than 470,000 homicides and more than 116,000 disappearances in Mexico. Men between the ages of 20 and 35 are disproportionately likely to be disappeared, though there are regions where a significant number of women have disappeared.
San Pedro de las Colonias, an agricultural town in the Coahuila desert, has officially recorded 106 disappearances between 2007 and 2013 during the conflict between the Los Zetas and the Sinaloa cartels for control of the La Laguna region, a key part of a drugs and arms trafficking route between Mexico and the United States. However, the actual number of missing persons remains unknown.
Relatives of these thousands of victims, especially mothers of the disappeared, often called madres buscadoras, or searching mothers, have spearheaded a movement advocating for strategies, laws, and actions to locate their loved ones, seek justice, and prevent future disappearances.
Although levels of violence have significantly decreased due to the collaborative efforts of the local government, civil society, and businessmen, families continue to fear reporting disappearances due to threats and persecution. In many cases, they have been coerced into accepting the loss of their loved ones.
Meanwhile, in the U.S., the idea of attacking Mexico to combat drug cartels has gained popularity, particularly among the Republican elite. Although Donald Trump has repeatedly denied supporting Project 2025, this 900-page policy urges the next U.S. administration to adopt a “creative and aggressive approach” to addressing drug cartels at the U.S.–Mexico border, which echoes some of Trump’s promises to send “kill teams” into Mexico to assassinate drug kingpins.
However, such an intervention could lead to a continued battle against Mexico’s most vulnerable without guaranteeing significant impacts on organized crime enterprises or drug trafficking.
The Legacy of U.S.-Funded Militarization in Mexico
When then Mexican President Felipe Calderón declared war on organized crime, he received more than $1.5 billion in U.S. military aid through the Mérida Initiative. During Calderón’s six-year term, the Mexican military, with U.S. assistance, arrested or killed 25 of Mexico’s 37 high-level drug lords.
While Mexican authorities have declared the “kingpin strategy” mostly a success, it has also fueled intra-cartel violence, leading to the fragmentation of the cartels. According to the International Crisis Group, at least 543 armed groups operated in Mexico between mid-2009 and the end of 2020. Fragmentation has also escalated local violence and put citizens, journalists, and human rights defenders at risk as criminal groups diversify their illicit activities, including human trafficking, poaching, extortion, illegal logging, and more.
Even searching for the disappeared is a dangerous endeavor: Since 2010, 21 people have lost their lives while searching for their relatives. One mother, Lorenza Cano, has been missing since Jan. 15, 2024. And yet, despite the danger, Martin Villalobos, a spokesperson for Movimiento por Nuestros Desaparecidos en México, a movement uniting more than 60 collectives of families of the disappeared, says these families are still best positioned to understand the operations of criminal groups and facilitate searches for their loved ones.
“We’ve been saying that we families, across the country, know the territory,” says Villalobos. “How does organized crime operate? Not based on the result of a police investigation, but rather from our own experience. This knowledge has cost some of our compañeras their lives.”
Despite the risks, these families have often exposed varying degrees of collusion between state agents and organized crime that make their work even more dangerous. In 2020, General Salvador Cienfuegos, who was head of Mexico’s army from 2012 to 2018 and once the country’s secretary of national defense, was arrested by U.S. authorities in Los Angeles on charges of participating in an international drug trafficking and money laundering network. After being pressured by Mexican authorities, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration dropped the charges and released Cienfuegos, who was then bestowed an honorary military decoration in 2023.
This level of collusion places madres buscadoras in greater jeopardy. As drug cartels continue to infiltrate the Mexican state, from local officials to high-level government, “silence zones” emerge, where reporting human rights abuses and seeking justice becomes too dangerous.
Despite the challenging conditions families of the disappeared face, hundreds of collectives continue to lead searches across the country. In Culiacán, Sinaloa, Sabuesos Guerreras, a group of nearly 2,000 relatives of the disappeared, has located more than 650 bodies in clandestine graves. “We have found more than 18,950 charred fragments in water wells and rivers,” María Isabel Cruz Bernal, founder of the collective, adds.
Cruz is the mother of Yosimar García Cruz, a police officer who disappeared in 2017 in Culiacán. She believes the only thing authorities are doing is “betting on our deaths” to end the search for the disappeared. Through their investigations, Sabuesos Guerreras have identified high-ranking officials colluding with criminal groups. They have urged the government to purge corrupt institutions and authorities as a first step toward increasing trust and transparency, but their demands have been ignored. “There is no security strategy that protects us,” she adds.
A Civilian-Led Path Forward
In September, Mexico’s Chamber of Deputies approved a constitutional-reform initiative that would place the civilian-led National Guard under the control of the armed forces. Fundar, a center for analysis and research on democracy-related issues, warned that the concentration of power in the state and armed forces has resulted in grave human-rights violations that “disproportionately affect marginalized groups, exacerbating their precariousness and intersecting with gender and ethnic vulnerabilities.”
While a direct connection between the surge in disappearances and the country’s militarization is difficult to establish, Alejandra Ramírez, a researcher at Fundar, said it’s concerning that public security remains entrusted to military forces that often operate with impunity. “Instead of continuing to bet on the much-emphasized strengthening of state and municipal police forces, prosecutors’ offices, and other institutions, it appears that these entities [the military] are being given primary responsibility,” Ramírez says. “History shows that they have a track record of committing crimes that go unpunished and unsolved.”
In Culiacán, for instance, videos obtained by the influential daily Reforma show military and National Guard forces shooting at and detaining a man on Oct. 7. The footage suggests they planned to kill him but abandoned the attempt when they realized they were being filmed.
In early October, Mexico’s new government unveiled its strategy to combat violence and crime. Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexico’s first female president, said she would not engage in a new war against Mexico’s powerful drug cartels. “The war on drugs will not return,” she said after taking office. “We are not looking for extrajudicial executions, which is what was happening before. What are we going to use? Prevention, attention to the causes, intelligence, and presence [of authorities].”
Instead of deploying assassination squads to capture drug kingpins (as Trump suggested), the Mexican government wants to strengthen the National Guard and enhance intelligence gathering, similar to the work families have been doing for years.
While both countries continue to rely on military efforts to counterattack drug cartels, families are demanding technical and financial assistance to accelerate the search of the missing and the identification of the more than 70,000 bodies that remain in the forensic backlog. As a first step, they seek to initiate a national dialogue, with the support of the international community, to advocate for their demands against the Mexican government and amplify the urgency of their struggle.
Meanwhile, they continue searching for their loved ones, gathering information on criminal modus operandi, demanding preventive measures, and calling for the implementation of real actions. During the march to commemorate the International Day of the Disappeared, dozens of families walked through the quiet streets of San Pedro de las Colonias, breaking a decade-long silence. Many onlookers stood in stunned disbelief, watching the procession.
Martínez walked in the middle holding the tarp featuring Ofelia’s face. For two hours, Martínez and the other mothers marched, chanting, “Where are they, where are they?”
Chantal Flores
is an independent journalist based in Monterrey, Mexico. She covers gender violence, enforced disappearance, and social justice.
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