On September 26, 2014, 43 student-teachers from a rural teaching college in Ayotzinapa, Mexico commandeered several buses and traveled to Iguala, a neighboring city, to protest a conference hosted by the Mayor of Iguala’s wife. During their journey, the students were intercepted by local police, taken in to custody, and turned over to Guerreros Unidos, a local crime syndicate heavily involved in drug trafficking. Though the sequence of events following the kidnappings remains unclear, Mexican authorities believe that the students were massacred by individuals associated with the gang, under orders from the Mayor and with the knowledge and cooperation of local law enforcement. As additional details have surfaced, including accusations regarding the possible involvement of the Federal Police, mostly-peaceful demonstrations have erupted across the nation, with protesters chanting “Ya me canse’,” or “I’ve had enough,” enough of government corruption, state-sponsored crime, and collusion between police and drug syndicates.
On December 6, a little less than three months after the disappearances, I arrived in Mexico City. Earlier that day, the remains of a body found in a mass grave northern Mexico had been identified as one of the missing students. That night, thousands of protesters, including families of the victims, gathered in front of the Palacio de Bellas Artes, an enormous landmark in the historic city center and a frequent site for demonstrations. Riot police stacked six deep squared off behind the protesters, protecting the Palacio de Bellas Artes as well as other important government buildings. A few weeks prior to this demonstration, rioters had attacked the governor’s palace and burned sections of the entrance as supporters chanted “the State is dead.”
I came across the protest by chance. Walking home from dinner, riot police had politely re-directed me around the closed streets. I crossed paths with the protesters on Paseo de la Reforma, one of Mexico City’s primary arteries, and kept pace with them for a few blocks. “We are the 43,” they chanted. “We are all lost.” I left them when they turned north, towards Monumento de la Revolucion, where the demonstration would conclude.
The next morning, I walked from the monument to the city center, along the route the protesters had followed. The demonstration itself had been remarkable, an outward manifestation of the resentment and tension simmering just below the surface for years, particularly in Mexico’s more violent areas; the disappearance of the students was just the latest in a long list of crimes perpetrated by the government against its population.
Equally noteworthy was the trail of graffiti the protesters left in their wake. Much of it focused on the students themselves, calls for justice and retribution.
One stenciled image shows a flying saucer labeled “Estado,” or “the State” abducting a person, someone we can only assume represents the students.
Many images also reflect the broader narrative sweeping across the nation, one of revolution, civil disobedience, and even anarchy. The slogan “Fuera Pena,” calling for the resignation of Mexican President Enrique Pena Nieto, has seen widespread use in protests and demonstrations, as has “Fue el estado,” or “it was the State,” referring to the government’s complicity in crimes against the population.
Images, especially those displayed in public places, have always played a fundamental role in popular movements. With students and the youth at the forefront of Mexico’s current political crisis, it’s no surprise that the graffiti of revolution has become their weapon of choice against the state, or that the movement itself is gathering momentum.
Two days after the protests, much of the graffiti that had covered public buildings, fountains, and billboards along Mexico City’s main roads had been erased, either scraped off or painted over. Despite the on-going demonstrations and international attention garnered by this crisis, the Mexican government has worked hard to hide any signs of domestic turmoil, particularly in areas frequented by tourists.
Their efforts, however, though effective against more cosmetic damages, have done nothing to deter individuals like this man who, along with many other protesters, has taken up residency outside the Palacio de Bella Artes. Standing below banners and signs covered in slogans calling for justice, he defiantly holds up a poster of all 43 students’ faces. “They were taken from us alive,” he declares to all passers-by, “and we want them back alive.” He’s not a relative of one of the victims, or even from their region. “I heard about what had happened,” he explained in broken English, “and I couldn’t stay home.”
Let’s be fearless,
Jen