What you are about to read is a true account of a kidnapping, as with most stories in Mexico, the victim wishes to remain anonymous, out of fear for himself and his families safety.
He had family in the states and steady work, but as with all who make the journey, he longed for his home. Every so often he would make the trip back to his small suburb outside the city. This last trip back was different however, the scenery had changed, and so had many of his friends and family. Many had been sucked up into ensuing war which had broken out in the region.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun had baked the dusty town. He and a group of friends were hanging outside his friend’s house enjoying some cold beers. There was much laughter and jokes; they all wanted to hear of his adventures in America. Then they began telling him stories, and the jovial nature slowly turned eerie and silent. His friends told him of the disappeared, the roaming bands of gun totting lunatics and the war. He wasn’t shocked, it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard these stories before, but the difference was the sheer depth of the conflict, it seemed to have touched everyone.
The three received what felt like several blows to their bodies then tossed into the back of the vehicle. There they drove to some place unknown. Some dimly lit room, in some part of town he was unfamiliar with. It smelled of shit and piss, the light flickered on and off, bobbing back and forth. For all he knew it might have been part of a police department or someones home.
Dazed and confused he and his friends were then once again tossed into another vehicle. This time they were thrown into the bed of a pickup truck. He wondered how they were going to die. He had heard of so many terrible ways to die in Mexico. He shuttered at the thought blocking it out as much as he could. He thought of all the things he was going to miss, dinner with his family, chasing girls with his friends, cold beer and tamales on summer days. The memories came flooding back as the truck lumbered on. He could feel the road underneath him, every pothole, twist and turn. His mouth was dry, his eyes watered, was this how it was going to end for him he wondered?
He heard the first shot; then the awful thump of dead weight falling to the ground. He felt his hands shake; there was a terrible pit in his stomach; that was his friend. He heard the bullet casing wedge itself in the dirt, he heard footsteps and another click as another round loaded into the chamber. Each sound echoing in his head, the seconds felt as if eternity was toying with him. Then the second shot came, followed by that same dreadful thud. He was next; then he heard feedback from a two way radio. One of the gunmen answered, in a hushed tone he walked away.
Stories like his are repeated daily in Mexico, young men getting swept up only to be found days later, dead. Their stories never to be told, never to be resolved, it has just become part of life now. It takes courage to bring light to darkness and expose those who claim to work in the name of justice. To all those who remember the missing, to all of your stories, to all your pain, may you one day you find the answers to what you seek. We will never forget and we will not remain silent.