There are no victims in this town

Jorge Sánchez

It's at the Port and City of Veracruz where I've agreed to meet Jorge, the son of Moisés Sánchez who was assassinated less than a year ago, presumably for having published articles in La Unión de Medellín, a daily which he modestly published. These articles were critical of the president of the municipality of Medellín, Omar Cruz.

I'm nervous, afraid. Jorge had suggested that we meet at the entrance to the Cathedral. I arrive an hour early and I take a seat at the restaurant in front to grab a bite. As the clock ticks I get more nervous. Ten minutes before it's time, I ask for the check, pay, and leave. I wait. Fifteen minutes later I start to worry that Jorge won't call. I think about plan B, but there is no plan B. I have to find him no matter what. My phone rings: "It's Jorge, where are you?" We finally meet and he suggests that we go to a café a few blocks from the cathedral.

I explain my plan. To my surprise, and without asking many questions, he agrees to tell me his story. Not only that, but he also invites me to the launch event of the next issue of La Unión de Medellín, on January 2, one year to the day since his father's disappearance. I'm happy to have made a first contact, but, to my surprise, I'm still afraid. Is this how all journalists work, or just those from Veracruz?

The Commissioner 

When I meet Jorge Morales and I see him arrive with his motorcycle helmet under an arm and right away the image of a scrappy reporter comes to mind. A motorcycle is the ideal vehicle for him; he can get around quickly and cheaply.

"I'm first and foremost a reporter and a functionary second," he tells me confidently.

He also explains how he came to the Comisión. I realize that he's a critic of the system and that he understands that, even if it isn't much, some good can be done from within it.

I tell him about my project and ask for an interview. We finish breakfast and he hurries back to his office. As I make a few notes and finish my coffee, I hear his motorcycle zoom off. I imagine him weaving through traffic.

He's given me names and numbers of victims whom he has known through the Comisión. He's also given me permission to use his name in order to get more interviews.

He also tells me about the working conditions for journalists. "I've heard of cases where a reporter gets between 30 or 50 pesos per note (1.5 or 2.5 USD), if the note gets published", Jorge says and ads "to make a living, a journalist needs to publish at least ten notes a day! Without health or life insurance, pension or payed holidays, journalists have it really difficult, especially in rural areas".

We had settled the interview for tomorrow. From this point forward, Gerardo is joining me as DoP in Veracruz.

Later on, the good impression I got about Morales changed little by little after I interwiewed other journalists, includying the ones he mentioned to me.

My interpretation is that the system is so strong and inclined towards power, that it is capable of destroying the best intentions.

Hugo Morales

I spend the morning looking into Morales Alejo. According to what I find on the Internet, he's originally from Córdoba and has worked in radio and print in the central part of the state. Also, he was the Director of Social Communication at the Fortín de las Flores municipality between 2001 and 2004. He now lives in Paso del Macho town.

From what I read, it's clear that he's a controversial figure. On the one hand, he won the National Journalism Award given by the Federación de Asociaciones de Periodistas de México [Federation of Journalist Associations of Mexico] two years in a row. On the other, there are accusations of corruption from while he was working in the municipality. Aside from that, I find a few reports of how members of a journalists' union have supported him after he was arrested by state police for having participated in a protest against a pig farming factory which is rumored to be a big polluter in the area.

In the afternoon I head to Córdoba where we've agreed to meet. I park the car at a parking lot a few blocks away. When I arrive to the café he's already there, drinking a cappuccino. I order a lemonade and we start to chat. I tell him in broad terms what I've learned about him. He says that he has nothing to hide, not since he was kidnapped. "I realized that life can end at anytime and the best thing to do is to continue living as well as I can, spending time with my family and doing journalism because it's still important and that's why I keep at it."

While we talk Hugo greets to men sitting nearby. I turn to have a look, both have a crew cut. I can't avoid feeling nervous. The conversation helps my nerves and as it starts to get interesting I ask him to not say too much. I'd rather he do the talking in front of a camera. He agrees to be interviewed and I promise I'll call him to set it up. While he's in the bathroom I ask for the check. When he comes back he says "I'm heading out, but it's better if we don't leave together, you go first,". Why doesn't he think we should go out together? Is he protecting me? Warning me? This is the first time I feel truly afraid.

I leave the café weak-kneed and with my heart pounding. I look around and behind me to be sure that nobody is following me. I see people in the park and I wonder if it's possible that anything could happen in such a public space. It's horrifying to think that, as I've read several times in many newspapers, yes, in Mexico at this very time and place something could happen. Halfway through the park I stop, sit on a bench next to a man who doesn't look to be waiting for anything or anybody. He smiles and says hello. I respond, calmed down a little, yet I'm still shaking inside. Maybe I should get a bite to eat, to fortify myself a bit, but then I think that it'd just be silly. I get up, say good-bye to the man, and head back to where I parked.

In the car next to mine are several men; the fear returns. The woman who runs the parking lot comes out and, smiling, asks if I'm leaving. "Yep," I say. "How much?" "Nineteen pesos," she responds, still smiling. As I pay, two of the men get out of the car. They're eating sandwiches. They look delicious. One passes a bottle of soda to the other. Just to calm myself down, I ask myself who'd kidnap someone while eating one of those. I get into my car but, before I do, I can't avoid looking again. One of the men waves, sandwich in hand. It sure does look tasty.

Fear in Xalapa

I head into the center of the city. After all this time, it seems incredible that Xalapa, little more than a sleepy, provincial town the first time I came here, can be the same place I'm in now, crammed full of cars. I remember all too well how it was a quiet city and how, if it weren't for the students and the bureaucrats, it still could have passed for a typical small town in rural Mexico.

As I walk towards the Centro de Estudios de la Comunicación (CEC) [Center for Communication Studies], to meet Dr. Celia del Palacio, I think about friends from my time here. No more than a year ago one of them expressed the sentiments of so many people here in Veracruz: when I asked him why he closed his store, which had for several years been successful enough for him to live comfortably, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a corner and told me in a low voice, almost whispering in my ear, "first an extortion and from there it's only a small step to a kidnapping." I remember having taken a while to understand what he was saying; also that at first I thought that he was exaggerating. Later, upon hearing unspeakable stories of extortion and kidnapping I realized that his fear was everyone's fear. Now more than ever, I understand the importance of discretion.

Dr. del Palacio is from Jalisco, a historian who studies the press in Mexico. Naturally her opinions and thoughts are important for my project. She's a busy woman but nevertheless she is willing to give me some of her time so that I may talk a bit about myself and why I'm here. We set the interview for tomorrow. Before I go, she gives me a copy of her book Violence and regional journalism in México.

I spend the rest of the day reading the book. In it, I learn how violence against journalists in Mexico is nothing new, that it's been something journalists here have had to deal with for as long as there have been journalists in this country. Indeed, since colonial times, journalism has in many ways been practiced in the margins of society, in the shadows, yet also done in the service of those in power.

I also learn that journalistic code of ethics barely exist here, that, despite some efforts made by individual editors at a few newspapers, there's no common code of ethics at a national level. As I read this I remember an anecdote from my childhood: one day the local newspaper published a piece about a man who had died of a heart attack at a motel -where he was accompanied with a much younger woman to "enjoy good sex", The piece's headline read "HE DIES IN 'THE ACT'!" and included the names and addresses of both. The woman was our neighbor. From then on, her family was stigmatized and her only son, then just a teenager, had to suffer the consequences.

The jail-like home

The Sánchez' home at El Tejar looks like a prison; it has a gate and a barbed-wire fence like the ones I've seen at military installations. There are security cameras on all corners and floodlights aimed at every nook and cranny. "The worst is the electric bill, which has gone up a lot since they installed all this stuff to 'protect' us,"explains Jorge. In the living room there's a set of monitor hooked up to the security cameras. Jorge has had to learn to use them in order to search, back up, or delete the images that come in constantly.

We do the interview in the garden, in the shade of a small almond tree, with the gate and the security guard making up our backdrop. It's windy and at times we can hear a fruit seller's loud speaker. It's a long conversation, and at times I can see how Jorge has to hold himself together, to not let all his emotions come out. The horrible tale he is telling me now happened about a year ago, yet he tells it with fortitude and with a wealth of detail.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm repeating myself," he tells me as he finishes."That's fine with me," I reply, "because then I can choose the best parts. Besides, I'm sure it really seems like that because you've gone over this so many times." He smiles and nods.

Mari comes in to cook for her grand kids. We agree that I'll interview her afterward.

So I ask Gerardo to shift to filming her close to the open fire she uses to cook some things. Jorge helps to light the fire, and as we set up the cameras and lights he looks at the monitor and says, "this interview I'd like to see."

Mari is a bit nervous and has a bit of a cold, so we decide to make it quick. Besides, she has to get back to work. She sits on a plastic chair, and has some tissue paper on her hands. She coughs as we make a few final adjustments. The fire behind her is heating up.

Disappeared

Leaving for Acayucan. In this swing south, we see the same as elsewhere: lots of police and soldiers.

We arrive in Acayucan towards the end of the afternoon. Driving into town I remember that I was here a few years ago, filming again. "I didn't remember the town was so green and full of life," I mention to Gerardo. But bit by bit I begin to recognize my surroundings and, indeed, I remember that this is how it is here.

The hotel looks out on the park. We check in and I call my contact here, "Jonás," who has requested anonymity. "I don't want to put myself in danger, the police here don't care about anything or anybody," he explains. We agree to meet in about an hour.

When it's time, I go down to the lobby. Jonás arrives and he suggests we go to a restaurant, across the park. We get there and have a beer while he explains about Gabriel Fonseca, a.k.a. Cuco, a 19 year old and self-taught journalist that disappeared in 2011, and the possible reasons for his disappearance. "Unfortunately, everything I can say is speculation, because nobody's dug into this. Neither the police nor the owners of the paper," he says. "But worst of all is his parents' situation. His mom's health took a turn for the worse and she was—still is—being treated with strong meds," he continues.

He gives me the whole story. After an hour we agree on tomorrow´s activities.

On the next day the first interview is with with Jonás. We do it in his office, where he shares space with other journalists and photographers.

Then we go to the home of Cuco's parents.

Along the way we meet up with Susana, a colleague of Jonás. She tells us that she is studying investigative journalism and wants to see how we conduct the interview. "Aren't you afraid to work as an investigative reporter under these conditions?" I ask. "In truth, yes, but I try not to think about it because it needs to be done and it's what I want to do," she responds with a big smile I can see in the rear view mirror.

The entrance to the house is a doorway without a door, only covered by a metallic sheet pulled aside to enter. We're greeted by Juan, Cuco's father. He's a slight man, getting on in years, who wears a black sombrero. After the first round of introductions we're met by Candelaria, his wife, and their son Ricardo, Cuco's younger brother. The afternoon weather and light are nice, so we stay in the patio. Candelaria shows us her dog, nursing eight puppies in the shade of a banana tree. The patio has some fruit trees and decorative plants line the house. There's also a well, a chicken coop, and two rooms still under construction. "Cuco was helping with them, that's why they're still only half finished," Candelaria tells me.

This is a very sad interview. Jonás has already told us about the troubles the family has had since Cuco's disappearance. "He was the one who supported them. Thanks to Cuco, they had food on the table, but now they don't have nothing. The paper's owners don't pay them a pension, using the excuse that Cuco hasn't been declared dead, only missing," Jonás tells us. He's also told us that the Comisión Estatal de Atención a Periodistas has helped them with the issues of depression that Candelaria and Ricardo have faced. "Some colleagues got together and asked the Comisión for this, but it's harder because the rules say that they can only help out for up to six months, something like that. Sometimes among friends we all chip in and bring them some money, but we can't always manage it," he tells us, sad, frustrated.

It is almost nice for me to hear that solidarity is still among this people, in spite of everything.

When we finish we say our goodbyes but I don't know what else to say. The powerlessness I feel is more than any good wishes I could have and I only manage to say thanks and express that I hope things go better for them. Juan shakes my hand and, looking at his feet, says, "maybe you can bring my son's case to places where something can be done about it, all we want is to have him back and for them to give us the survivor's pension." His plea for help smacks of resignation and all I can say is that I'll do what I can.

When we get into the car and drive back, I ask Jonás if he thinks it'd be possible to see Juan again tomorrow. "Yes, he has a spot where he shines shoes and he shows up there every day at 10. You can find him there," he responds.

The day after, after breakfast we head out to look for Juan. We find him hard at work, on a busy street corner a few blocks from the hotel, shining the shoes of a man of about the same age.

To hide their wear, Juan goes over the man's shoes many times with brown polish. The man says that it isn't necessary yet Juan insists that the shoes can be made to look better. After a while Candelaria comes by with her shopping bag, sits on a bench near Juan, and watches him work. I sit to chat with her a bit and she tells me that she was in better spirits, "which is why I came out to go shopping, Maru, you've got to eat, and I hope it goes well for my hubby because I'd like to have chicken today." She tells me this holding me by the arm as though I were a neighbor or a friend.

Juan finishes his job. The client pays and leaves. As Candelaria brings him a thermos with coffee, he leans in towards me and asks, "Could you help us out a bit?" He goes on to explain, "I have to buy medicine for my wife and I don't think the money from Xalapa will arrive." Thoughts rush through my head: "Is it ethical? I should say no. If I give them money, will it be truly helpful?" I can't find any answers, but, feeling compassion, I reach into my pants pocket and take out a couple of bills which I give to Juan. Looking at his feet, he takes the money and thanks me. "May God pay you back and tenfold," he says, hugging me.

On the way out from Acayucan, it seems like maybe the town isn't as nice as it had seemed when we came in two days ago.

M.I.E.D.O.

I go to the presentation of the Artículo 19's annual report. The report is named MIEDO (fear), initials for Media, Impunity, State, Democracy and Opacity.

As I arrive a video about journalists in Veracruz is being shown. Some of them I've met and others are on screen, telling their stories, Jorge Sánchez among them. At the end of the conference, I catch him and Mari are among the audience.

I come up to say hi and talk with them for a while, especially with Mari, as Jorge gives interviews. After, more people come to say hello to Mari. Among them are Denisse Dresser, a well-known journalist and political analyst; Pedro Canché, a journalist from the state of Quintana Roo who has been hounded and even jailed by the government in his home state; Claudia Ordóñez from the Mexico City's Commission for Human Rights; and Perseo Greco, from the Somos el Medio collective, an alternative online newspaper. We all talk about our projects, exchange email addresses and telephone numbers and even discuss working together in the future. Pedro Canché invites me to Quintana Roo to discuss making a film about Mayan culture and I promise to go as soon as I can. Indeed, this is a gratifying way to finish this phase of my project.

While I spend the last few days with my family before I go back to Norway, Jonás calls me and asks me to not use the part of his interview where he mentions that the chief of police in Acayucan might be involved or at least might know who kidnapped Cuco. "Why?" I ask. "Because they just promoted him to commandant. He has more power now," he responds. I promise him I'll be careful with how I use his interview but I also tell him about the importance of his testimonial. I say I really would like to have it in the story. He finally agrees and we hang up.

Corruption, kidnapping, killings, mistrust. It's definitely not easy to be a journalist in Veracruz.