BY MONICA ADAME
Cristina wore her usual workplace two-piece suit, her hair in a ponytail. She had no glamorous event planned for the day. As an official at the Ministry of Governance, in Mexico City, her work consisted on touring municipalities to instruct local bureaucrats on how to request funds from the federal government and international agencies to finance development projects.
That Wednesday, she traveled to Morelia, the capital of the state of Michoacan, in the center of Mexico. She spent the morning negotiating an agenda for an international cooperation conference with state and local representatives.
When the meeting finished, local bureaucrats hosted a lunch at a regional cuisine restaurant. Cristina wished she could take the bus back home, but declining the invitation was not an option so she went along. She chose a seat at the table facing the stairs. Behind her was the exit to the smoking terrace and the view of the city of Morelia. She placed her bag on her lap and searched for anti-bacterial gel to clean her hands. The waiter served appetizers and brought jars filled with agua de jamaica.
The two-floor restaurant was decorated with traditional crafts of Morelia. Three women occupied the table in the terrace and two boys played among the tables, their parents busy eating.
Cristina drank a sip. She was thirsty. As she was savoring an uchepo, three women ran into the restaurant shouting hysterically. Cristina thought bees had scared the women until someone yelled to duck and Cristina did. She tried to gulp down the salty dough that stuck in her throat as she squatted with her back bent toward the table. Accustomed to the insecurity in Mexico City, where she lived, she thought the restaurant was being assaulted. After all, she had heard noises resembling chairs being thrown and was unable to figure out where the sound had come from. Her colleagues got up, trying to get cover from the terrace. She stood up too, her hands holding the bag and her feet unwilling to step forward.
She heard shouts. “Federal Police, Federal Police.” Three men emerged from the stairs. “This is a routine inspection,” one of the voices said in a firm tone. Dressed in black uniforms, ski masks, flak jackets, helmets and gloves, only their eyes were visible. No one attempted eye contact. They were searching for weapons. “I thought I was going to die. I kept telling myself I was too young and hadn’t found true love yet,” Cristina said.
Michoacan is home to “La Familia” cartel and the birthplace of current Mexican President Felipe Calderon. His government’s fight against drug cartels began in Morelia at the end of 2006. La Familia operates drug routes in the center of the country – the states of Jalisco and Michoacan – and uses religion to encourage discipline. It also acts as a vigilante group protecting michoacanos as justification for their violent disputes against rival groups.
“Arms up, all against the wall and close your eyes,” three intimidating voices ordered. She heard the hammers of their weapons cock after they gave their instructions. Cristina did as told. The sound sent chills through her legs. She stuck her chin against the wall and raised her arms as high as she could endure. She was leaning over a portrait and through the reflection on the glass saw more officers climbing up the stairs. She felt sick and lowered her arms. “Arms up, don’t you get it,” an officer immediately scolded. The police began frisking the men at her right without finding any weapons. Cristina remembered the seams of her camel-colored bag were coming unstitched. She felt embarrassed.
“My breathing was so loud. I was making so much noise, as if I were laughing, but I couldn’t pull in enough air,” Cristina recalled. “I had never been so afraid in my life.” Cristina was the last one in the line. The officer emptied the old bag, now irreparably damaged. He did not touch her.
“Count until 15 and open your eyes,” the officers commanded. They went downstairs and boarded their trucks. Cristina realized then the source of the noises: opening and closing of tailgates.
Frightened and in shock, Cristina and her colleagues sat down. Cold tortillas and spicy meat adorned the table. No one ate.
Cristina’s chauffeur had seen the raid from outside. He saw men storm into the restaurant and called the municipal office to give her name in case she was kidnapped and later found dead, trashed in a gully.
The waiters informed Cristina and her colleagues that two men in their twenties, having lunch in the lower level, were detained. Their t-shirts had been pulled over their heads to prevent identification and rescue missions. “Those Federales were from your team señorita,” a waiter joked.
“It’s very scary because you do not know if the people eating in the adjoining tables are narcos carrying guns and ready to use them,” Cristina said. “They are willing to die on the line. I am not.”
After four hours of traveling by bus, Cristina arrived to the Ministry of Governance, in Mexico City. She told the story to her boss who replied with a resolute: “Oh yes, things are really bad in Morelia. That’s why I never go.” Cristina knew her job entailed traveling alone to most municipalities in the country, including those increasingly violent. Ciudad Juarez, in the state of Chihuahua, was her next week’s assignment.
A day before her trip to Juarez Cristina felt a pinch on her right knee. She limped through the office and left early to have an X-ray taken. She called in sick on Wednesday, citing doctor’s recommendations for absolute rest. “I couldn’t refuse the assignment on the basis of fear. I thought that was not a valid reason, so I paid 1,300 pesos for the X-ray to avoid going to Juarez,” she confessed.
The Ministry accommodated her safety concerns paying for airplane tickets instead of bus trips. Driving from the airport to the local governments’ offices, however, sometimes took longer than the flight itself.
Cristina quit her job two months after the incident in Morelia. “Violence does not discriminate social status. All the people at the table were high-level officials. If they are the ones that have power and control and were unable to identify themselves, my life certainly does not matter,” she said adamantly.