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08.08.2014
By the first days of October, the outdoor basketball court at the Rural Teachers College in Ayotzinapa, a town in the Mexican state of Guerrero, had become an open-air waiting room of despair.
On the night of September 26, 2014, in the city of Iguala, 80 miles away, uniformed police ambushed five buses of students from the college and one bus carrying a professional soccer team. News of the attack was met initially with muted outrage, mostly because the reports out of Iguala, a highlands city of 110,000, were confusing.
Although it was neither an isolated event nor the largest massacre in recent years, what occurred in Iguala has struck at the core of Mexican society. Every year, 140 first-year students arrive at the all-male Raul Isidro Burgos Rural Teachers College from some of the most economically battered places in the hemisphere, where elementary schools are often single-room, adobe structures without electricity, running water, or indoor plumbing.
Rural teachers colleges were created after the Mexican Revolution to promote literacy in the countryside. One of the most common “activities,” as the students call their actions, is commandeering buses. In mid-September, a group of second-years expropriated two buses at the Chilpancingo bus station. To get more buses, student coordinators?—?almost all second-years?—?scheduled an action for the evening of Friday, September 26.
They stopped outside of Huitzuco, and the students began to ask for donations and to keep an eye out for buses heading to Chilpancingo. A few blocks away, the political elite of Iguala and some 4,000 acarreados, people bused in to fill political events, were gathered in the Civic Plaza to hear what was billed as the second annual report of the National System for Integral Family Development’s Iguala office.
Elected in 2012, Mayor Jose Luis Abarca and his wife have long treated Iguala as their fiefdom. Among those who did not know the accusations against Iguala’s political couple or that they were speaking at a rally a few blocks away were the nine students impatiently waiting for the bus driver to return. When they arrived, the students parked the buses on the street and charged the station, their faces covered with T-shirts tied over their heads. As the three buses passed the Civic Plaza, police trucks approached from the side, sirens flashing. The students ran, some jumping back onto the first bus, others hiding between it and the second bus.
Most of the police had massed at the rear, behind the third bus, trapping the students inside. While this attack was occurring, the two buses heading directly out of Iguala became separated.
Seeing the blockade, the driver of Rojas’s bus tried to turn around when police came speeding up and forced him to halt. Near midnight, the journalists, having photographed the bullet holes in the buses and the casings on the street, requested an interview with the Ayotzinapa student committee president who had come in one of the vans.
Juan Perez, a first-year who had been shot through the flesh of his knee during the first attack, was running down the street when a classmate next to him fell. When the reports from Iguala first surfaced, Mexico was supposed to be in the grip of its Moment.
Over the past eight years, during the so-called “drug war,” some 100,000 Mexicans have been killed and at least 20,000 have been disappeared (human-rights organizations believe the number is higher).
The official logic of the drug war in Mexico has enabled many to accept as normal murder, massacre, disappearances, torture, and a political apparatus that not only allows these crimes to go unpunished but, in far too many cases, sanctions them. On September 27, state police arrested the 22 Iguala police officers whom the students had identified. Then, on October 4, the state prosecutor announced the discovery of four mass graves in the hills outside of Iguala.
After the announcement about the mass graves, the newly formed parents committee held a press conference at Ayotzinapa and called on the government to change its search. According to Murillo Karam, on the night of the attacks, police delivered the students to a drug gang who drove them to a trash dump outside of Cocula, a small town a few miles from Iguala. If the purpose of the press conference was to wrap up the case and to undercut the protests, it had the opposite effect.
Such an investigation would look into numerous reports of how the Iguala police force itself constituted an organized crime gang.
The day after the press conference, the parents watched from across the street as Ayotzinapa students threw rocks at the Guerrero state congress’s remaining windows and drove trucks up onto the entryway steps and set the vehicles on fire. In the days both leading up to and following the march, everywhere one turned Ayotzinapa was there: on newspaper front pages and magazine covers, on radio talk shows, in overheard conversations, in graffiti and stencil art.
On December 6, the Austrian lab confirmed that the identity of one of the bone fragments was a 19-year-old student named Alexander Mora Venancio, one of the missing 43. Murillo Karam’s words confirmed many observers’ worst fears: The government was doing everything it could to close the case. Which meant that 11 weeks after the attacks, the parents possessed little more information about their sons than what they had been told in the days immediately after the disappearances.
Together with three unidentified gunmen, they shot and killed six people, wounded more than 20, and “disappeared” 43 students. Perhaps it was the scale of the violence, or the sheer brutality, or that the victims were college students, or that the perpetrators were mostly municipal police, or that the mayor of Iguala, his wife, and the police chief were probably behind the attack, or that the state and federal governments were deceptive in their investigation and callous in their treatment of the mothers and fathers of the murdered, wounded, and disappeared. These are among the most committed youth of their communities for whom the system says there is no place: The ones apparently destined to enter the lowest ranks of the drug-warring armies or to scramble across the Arizona desert and pick bell peppers in California or wash dishes in Chicago. The state government provides a meal budget that amounts to $3.70 per student per day, which usually means a diet of eggs, rice, and beans. Traveling to observe teachers in rural areas is an essential part of the curricula, but the school has never owned many vehicles or had a budget to rent or acquire them. She asked him how it was possible that the Ayotzinapa students had made a habitual practice of stealing buses. They decided, though, to avoid Chilpancingo because riot police had been posted at the bus station.


Students came to terms with the driver, who requested that he first drop off his passengers in Iguala, about 20 minutes away. A regional development agency is hardly one to lavish money on flowers, lighting, sound, food, and bands for an annual report.
In recent years, they have acquired 31 houses and apartments, nine businesses, and 13 jewelry stores. They watched him, as he continued to talk with the station’s security guards, who in turn spoke into their phones and radios. The nine waiting students abandoned their bus and, along with the others, commandeered three more. Alvarez Street, which runs some 15 blocks before it reaches Periferico Norte Avenue, a major thoroughfare. One bus, with 14 students, found itself behind a bus carrying members of the Avispones, Chilpancingo’s third-division soccer team, which had won a game against Iguala earlier that day and was on its way home. The video cameras and audio recorders had been rolling for about four minutes when bursts of automatic gunfire rang out. He said there were three, dressed in black fatigues, wearing face masks, and shooting assault rifles from their waists. They identified 22 police officers who attacked them, talked to human-rights workers, and made a list of the missing. In a 2014 report, Amnesty International found that the use of torture by the Mexican military and police was widespread and routine. Scores of anguished men and women sat in rows behind three family members they had selected to speak on their behalf. They and students blocked federal highways, marched through cities, smashed the windows of and set fire to the Guerrero state congress and the governor’s offices.
From the beginning, the administration had underestimated the depth of anger that Iguala had tapped and found itself, often erratically, trying to control events. When the three men arrived at the open-pit dump, they discovered that 15 of the students were already dead or unconscious.
The men gathered the remains in plastic trash bags and emptied all but two into the nearby San Juan River.
Murillo Karam’s version focused so tightly on the three suspected gang members that Abarca, Pineda, and the police force blurred into the background. Soon after, parents and students embarked in three caravans, traveling across the country to call for support. In the hip Roma neighborhood, there was an untended altar of candles and poster-board signs demanding justice for the 43.
In a press conference, Murillo Karam summed up the government’s investigation, saying they had arrested 80 suspects including Abarca, Pineda, and more than 40 metropolitan police. The Argentine forensic team that had been working alongside the government quickly distanced itself from Murillo Karam’s account. Many of them learned the news during a march in Mexico City and announced it while standing before Monumento a la Revolucion, the towering edifice to the Mexican Revolution.
Under the court’s high, corrugated tin roof, the families of 43 missing students gathered to face the hours between search expeditions, protests, and meetings with government officials, human-rights workers, and forensic anthropologists. It wasn’t until October 4, when state prosecutors announced that they had uncovered the first in a series of mass graves on the outskirts of Iguala that the national and international media descended on the region. Whatever the cause?—?and it was likely a combination of all these reasons?—?it is impossible to overstate the effect of the attacks on the country. Upon their return, they held onto the buses?—?and the drivers?—?because many in the school were planning to travel to Mexico City for the October 2 march commemorating what’s considered the most infamous event in modern Mexican history: the 1968 army massacre of hundreds of students. Instead, the action would take place in the opposite direction, near Huitzuco, a small town about 70 miles from the school. Journalists who covered the event say that it was a thinly veiled pre-campaign party for the mayor’s wife, Maria de los Angeles Pineda, who was hoping to succeed him. The Mexican Army donated part of the land on which the couple built a $23 million shopping center on the edge of town. Fearing that the driver would refuse to get back on the bus, the students called their compatriots out on the highway, whose response was swift: They gathered rocks, got back on their two buses, and headed for the station. Now aboard five buses, the police nowhere in sight, the students told the drivers to get them out of town as fast as possible.
Behind them, they heard the police shouting, “Get the fuck out of here or you will be dead!” Pursued by the police, the 14 escaped into a nearby field. They posted lookouts and placed rocks and articles of trash around the gun shells and bloodstains left behind in an effort to protect the crime scene. When the students opened the door, the soldiers, with their guns raised, shouted for everyone to get on the floor. They found the bodies of the two dead students, facedown in the street, buses and cars riddled with bullets, and masked soldiers standing on the edge of the scene. It was then they learned that the students whom the police had forced off the buses never arrived at jail. Indeed, the very concept of corruption in Mexico has become outmoded: In most of the country, the state forces and “narcos” are fully integrated, and none of the major political parties is exempt. President Pena Nieto canceled a previously scheduled trip to Guerrero, citing unfavorable weather conditions but also giving the impression that the killings and disappearances were not his concern. When DNA analyses confirmed that the remains found in the mass graves were not those of the students, the protests spread to cities across the country. On November 20, the 104th anniversary of the Mexican Revolution, the caravans convened in Mexico City and led tens of thousands of people into the Zocalo, the city’s main square and the symbolic heart of the nation.
Assembled in clumps at the court’s edges, sitting on the concrete floor or in plastic folding chairs formed in semicircles, they spoke in hushed tones and kept to themselves.
When forensic workers confirmed that the first of the 30 charred human remains were not the missing students, anger and horror became widespread.


Ayotzinapa was founded in 1926, and, like all the colleges, has a long tradition of left-wing student organizing. For many, Friday had been the first day of classes, and now they were about to participate in one of the school’s rites of passage, their first action. At different times, state and federal prosecutors have accused Pineda’s parents and three brothers (two of whom have been murdered) of running an organized crime group known as Guerreros Unidos, or the United Warriors.
Two buses drove east toward Periferico Sur Avenue, which skirts the center of town and offers a direct route to the highway.
The buses were a few yards from the intersection with Periferico Norte when a police truck cut them off. When one finally arrived, the police prevented it from approaching, but the ambulance circled back, and paramedics took Solano to the hospital, where he was pronounced brain dead. In the ensuing three hours, they tried to reach the three buses on Alvarez Street but were prevented by the police, who shot at them and chased them up a hillside, where they hid until morning.
The inside of the third bus, from which police had taken all the students, was covered in blood. A woman shouted from a second-story window that they could hide in her house, but they pleaded for directions to a hospital.
He told a reporter that the “state government must assume its own responsibility to face what’s happening.” The search efforts during the first week involved state police driving groups of parents around Iguala, occasionally stopping to suggest that they knock on a door and ask if their children were hiding there. Murillo Karam explained that federal investigators had recovered the two bags and the tiny pieces of bone inside, which would be sent to the University of Innsbruck’s respected DNA laboratory in Austria. Why were there no traces in the dump of the steel fibers from the tires the killers claimed to use in the fire? We will continue in our struggle to bring back alive the 42.” By then this demand?—?this heartbreaking and irreproachable demand?—?had come to speak not only for the disappeared sons of Ayotzinapa but also for the profound yearning to bring Mexico itself back from all the horror. Most had traveled from small, indigenous, campesino communities in Guerrero’s mountainsides.
Soldiers at the 27th Infantry Battalion army base, located less than two miles away and tasked with fighting organized crime, did not intercede.
Mexico is now a nation in mourning, and at the heart of that grief are those 43 families on the Ayotzinapa basketball court and their agonizing demand: Bring them back alive.
Murals on school buildings depict not only internationally renowned revolutionary figures like Che Guevara and Zapatista rebel Subcomandante Marcos but also ’70s-era guerrilla leaders Lucio Cabanas and Genaro Vazquez, both Ayotzinapa graduates.
Gunmen hunted down the bus carrying the soccer team on the highway to Chilpancingo and killed the driver, a 14-year-old player, and a woman riding in a taxi passing by, and wounded at least nine others. Soon, two vans of students arrived from Ayotzinapa?—?they had received distress calls during the first moments of the attack?—?and, bit by bit, a few journalists and residents began to appear.
Initially, as many as 57 students were unaccounted for, but then they heard from the 14 students who had escaped to the outskirts of the city.
It obliterated the government’s insistence that in the drug war, a clear distinction exists between good guys and bad, between law and lawlessness. By this point, the federal government had taken over the investigation, enacting its power to assume jurisdiction over cases involving organized crime, a tacit acknowledgment by the administration that the political fallout could no longer be ignored.
Six days later, the parents met with President Pena Nieto and told him that if he was incapable of finding their children alive, he should follow Aguirre’s example.
The men proceeded to kill the students, pitch their bodies into the dump, and set the bodies on fire, using wood, tires, gas, and diesel to fuel the flames.
Fifty-eight minutes into the press conference, after leading reporters through the confessions, Murillo Karam cut short a reporter’s question by saying, “Ya me canse” (I’m tired), and soon left. Why would the killers carefully dump six bags of human ash into the river but toss in two unopened? In Chilpancingo, the Guerrero state capital, Ayotzinapa students smashed windows and set state government buildings on fire. Several murals memorialize two students who were killed by police in 2011 during a protest demanding an increase in the school’s enrollment and meal budget.
When students on the lead bus started to push the truck out of the way, police opened fire. In January 2010, gunmen broke into a house party and killed 15 high school and college students in Ciudad Juarez. How could the students have told the men that their protest was aimed at the mayor’s wife when that had never been part of the action that night? In August 2010, 72 Central and South American migrants were found slain in a barn in San Fernando, Tamaulipas.
More troubling, why had the government not presented the video-taped confessions of the 22 police officers identified by students as their attackers? They are police inside the police.” According to a local official, los belicos “are under the command of Pineda’s brother. Why had the government not released transcripts from police radios and cell phones, including Abarca’s and Pineda’s phones, that evening?
They are police with squad cars and everything, but they patrol masked at night grabbing people on the street and giving them an hour to come up with $1,000 or else.” An investigation would examine how Iguala had become a “narco municipality,” in the words of Mario Patron, director of the Miguel Agustin Pro Juarez Human Rights Center. These were nonstop machine-gun bursts.” Most of the students were able to take refuge in nearby houses a few blocks away, where the residents turned off the lights and ushered them into backrooms. Within a few blocks, a family provided haven, while a small group of students found a taxi to take their wounded schoolmate to a hospital.
The mobilizations following the 2011 murder of seven people in the state of Morelos, one of whom was the son of a respected Catholic poet, voiced the nation’s pain but lost momentum after attempts to negotiate with the federal government foundered. An investigation would ask how such a narco municipality has been allowed to operate with an army base in town.



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