CHIHUAHUA, Mexico (AP) — Jose Portillo Gil, the gang leader nicknamed “El Chueco” (The Evil One), lowered his gun. Then the priest Jesus Reyes uttered what he feared would be his last words: Please don’t take my brother’s body.
Next to him, at the altar of the church in northern Mexico, Jesuit priests Javier Campos, 79, and Joaquin Mora, 80, lay in a pool of blood.
“I could almost feel the bullets going through my body,” said Reyes, who was not hit in the attack but survived.
The massacre took place at Cerro Cahui Mid-2022But in the remote Tarahumara mountains, there is no less outrage over the crimes. Peace appeal Weakened.
Since taking office in 2018, President Andrés Manuel López Obrador has Avoid direct confrontation Cartels and violent gangs control and terrorize local communities. Hugs, Not Bullets The policy has drawn widespread criticism from religious leaders, human rights groups and journalists, who have expressed the fear and anger of the victims.
Organized crime gangs have long controlled large swaths of territory in states such as Guerrero and Michoacan. Many people have been displaced from rural Chiapas due to wars between the cartels, and about two dozen candidates have been killed ahead of the election. June 2 election.
Presidential candidates and ruling party candidates Claudia Sheinbaum met with representatives of the Mexican Bishops’ Conference. Although she agreed to sign Peace Promise The 61-year-old said she did not agree with the bishops’ “pessimistic assessment” of the current situation.
“I’ve never had such a difficult moment since I came to Tarahumara,” said Reyes, whose hearing was severely damaged by the shooting.
Like some other organized crime bosses, El Chueco has ties to the Sinaloa drug cartel and controls the local beer market. He funds bars and baseball teams and has a say in local elections and police appointments.
“We have no security, no peace,” Reyes said. “We are always in fear because he even shows up at parties and weddings.”
Hours before El Chueco stormed the church, he had been enraged by his baseball team’s loss in a game, shot a player and burned down his house. He then went to a hotel where tour guide Pedro Palma, who had just dropped off foreign tourists, asked El Chueco to behave himself. Palma was also shot and then taken to the church.
“Father Joaquin had just anointed him and all of a sudden, he (El Chueco) pulled out a gun and shot him twice,” Reyes said. “Then Father Javier looked at him like, ‘What have you done?’ and shot him twice as well.”
National Guard members set up a permanent base in Cerro Cahuie in response to the massacre, and troops remain in the area after the El Chueco incident Found dead in 2023But that has not stopped locals from abandoning their homes, fleeing violence and death.
“In the mountains, there are many communities displaced by organized crime,” said Azucena González, a teacher from the nearby town of Creel who works at a shelter for women facing dangerous situations. “We take in many families where the husbands have been killed and the wives cannot stay.”
Gonzalez’s hometown has a bloody history.
In 2008, then-President Felipe Calderón announced War on drugs In a surge in violence across the country, armed men opened fire on a group of locals hanging out in a public square. The massacre left 13 people dead, including a baby.
“It was a scene of hell,” said Javier Avila, another Jesuit priest who has been working in the area since the 1970s and arrived at the scene of the massacre.
“There were bodies everywhere,” Avila said. “But there was no sign of the police.”
Instead of praying, he appealed to the local government for help and requested security support. He asked the families of the deceased not to touch the bodies or alter the crime scene. He took late night walks to send the message: “I am not afraid and I will not leave.”
Among residents of the Tarahumara mountains, especially among the indigenous Raramurri people, priests like Avila, Reyes and the murdered Jesuit are often seen as beloved figures who fearlessly provided comfort and help.
Deep in Sierra Leone, where there are no roads or phone signals, Pastor Javier Campos, known for his rooster imitations that earned him the nickname “Father Gallo,” works closely with impoverished communities.
Many locals recall him baptizing their children or confirming their grandchildren. Others remember him for fixing televisions or teaching them carpentry.
“He taught me to play the guitar,” Rarámuri Jesús Vega said during a sacred ceremony called “Yúmari” on a recent Saturday in the town of Kuitco.
“I was very sad when he passed away,” Vega said. “They (Campos and Mora) were very famous priests who spoke our language.”
Even though they are dead, they seem to still exist among those who suffer from their murder.
During the recent Yúmari festival in Cuiteco, the community placed images of the Jesuits next to an image of a saint to whom they prayed for a good harvest: Our Lady of Guadalupe, patron saint of nearly 100 million Mexican Catholics.
“We are gathered here to ask God to look after us because we need help,” said Sister Silvina Salmeron of Tarahumara Parish, where the slain priest also served.
Earlier this year, four bishops from the Pacific coastal state of Guerrero met with Mexican drug cartel leaders to discuss a possible peace deal, a meeting that highlighted how the government’s policy of not confronting the cartels has led to ordinary citizens having to negotiate separate peace deals with the cartels.
“I feel like I have to talk to these (crime) leaders,” he said, referring to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, which determined that Avila needed security measures to protect him. “Everyone has the freedom and right to do what they think they should do to achieve peace.”
People often knock on his door in Creel. Some come to ask for marriage proposals, divorces or blessings. Many others seek help, look for missing family members or denounce the National Guard’s excessive use of force.
“People still believe in us,” Avila said.
In the past few days, a Raramuri man called him from the mountains where he was hiding from the criminals who had taken control of his ranch. “They chased us out and shot at us,” the man told Avila. “We have been here for three days and have run out of food and the children are with me. What should I do?”
Todos Los Santos Dolores Villalobos, a women’s rights defender in Rarámuri, said Avila, 81, taught her how to contact the prosecutor’s office, the civil registry, hospitals and the human rights office to mediate for the indigenous community she represents.
“The priests understand us as ‘Raramurri,'” Villalobos said. “We can go and tell them: They (criminals) cut down our trees, stole our cattle, locked us up. They brought destruction.”
“Who will guide us if the priests are in danger?”
