Journalism in Mexico: Where getting the story could mean getting killed
| Mexico City
Is it worth risking your life to cover the news? Mexican reporters ask themselves that question all the time, working as they do in the most dangerous place on earth for journalists outside of war zones.
And with five reporters killed for doing their job so far this year, the question weighs more heavily than ever. For some, it鈥檚 become even more personal.
The threat to Mexican journalists 鈥� particularly local reporters 鈥� comes from organized crime hit-men, local government officials, and other, often聽anonymous, sources. The intimidation scares some journalists out of the profession, and forces others to self-censor, limiting what Mexicans can read and see about their country.
Why We Wrote This
Journalism can easily get you killed in Mexico. Reporters tell the Monitor what inspires each of them to take that risk: social change, a sense of history, and a reluctance to write about entertainment.
Twenty-nine journalists have been killed here since 2015, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists, not including those killed so far this year. It鈥檚 not a trend anyone expects to drop off soon.
鈥淭his isn鈥檛 one simple problem that can be solved with a few simple solutions,鈥� says Jan-Albert Hootsen, the CPJ鈥檚 Mexico representative. Corruption, near-blanket impunity for journalists鈥� killers, and poor police training mean 鈥渢his is a problem that was many decades in the making and will take many years to resolve,鈥� he adds.
海角大神 spoke with Mexican reporters at different stages in their careers and in different parts of the country about what keeps them going, and their hopes for the future of their profession.
Writing 鈥渟tories for history鈥�
Juan Alberto Cedillo Guerrero never expected to be one of the few investigative reporters covering the explosion of crime and violence in northeastern Mexico. He studied history but dropped out of college, and found his footing in journalism covering financial news.
But when violence began to spiral about 15 years ago, he started questioning what was behind it. That led him to cover landmark stories like the 2011 three-day-long massacre of civilians in the small border town of Allende (retold in a Netflix drama, 鈥淪omos,鈥� last year), and to write five books about crime and violence.
He was聽聽by municipal police whom he had photographed making an arrest, and he鈥檚 received too many threats on his life to count. Somebody angered by his reports that 聽even smashed up his plumbing.
He鈥檇 asked the national newspaper which ran that story not to publish his byline, but editors in Mexico City ignored his request; perhaps they were unaware of the risks he was running.
鈥淭his is part of the emotional crisis,鈥� many Mexican reporters face, he says. 鈥淚n my region you know what it means to investigate and write a story like this.鈥�
聽鈥淥ften after publishing a big investigation, I鈥檒l disappear for a little bit,鈥� taking trips out of town or moving from guest bed to guest bed in the homes of generous friends, he says. 鈥淚 can feel really scared, but then it passes.鈥� He belongs to a national network designed to protect journalists and human rights workers, but chuckles at its effectiveness. He says the panic button he received as a member of the program 鈥渋sn鈥檛 much more than a toy.鈥�
Mr. Cedillo has considered quitting. And he has often resorted to self-censorship. If he and his wife hadn鈥檛 separated over a decade ago, he says, he would never have taken the risks that his beat demands. His family鈥檚 safety would have been at stake.
鈥淲hat gives me the conviction to keep going, despite the risks, is to write this down in the most understandable and well-documented way,鈥� Mr. Cedillo says. That way, perhaps, in the future, people will be able to better understand, and to fix, Mexico鈥檚 problems.
鈥淚 want to write stories for history,鈥� he says.
鈥淎 lifestyle鈥�
Alejandro Castro Flores, 27, is not only a journalist; he is an activist who last month helped organize nation-wide demonstrations demanding greater protection for reporters and their freedom of expression. Some of his colleagues in Cancun who turned out carried signs that read 鈥淲e won鈥檛 forget they shot us here.鈥� Two years ago, police had opened fire on them as they reported on a protest against violence against women.
鈥淚t makes me hopeful,鈥� he says. 鈥淢y generation is planting some seeds, but those coming up behind us are going to change the entire landscape鈥� with their readiness to be outspoken.
Mr. Castro is a freelance reporter in Quintana Roo, the site of popular beach destinations such as Cancun and Tulum. Organized crime is gaining traction 鈥� and international headlines 鈥� there, and clashes are catching tourists in their crossfire. Journalists have been targeted for their coverage of everything from environmental destruction to local politics.
鈥淚鈥檝e seen dozens of journalists killed in Mexico over the past four years [since starting his career], but that鈥檚 only part of what makes the profession precarious,鈥� Mr. Castro says. Just cobbling together a living by writing for a mix of local, national, and international outlets about the environment, human rights, and sometimes crime and security is hard enough. 鈥淭he uncertainty of the situation is pretty traumatizing,鈥� he says.
He says he doesn鈥檛 know a single young journalist who hasn鈥檛 already wondered 鈥渟hould I open a bakery instead? Become a carpenter?鈥� Yet, he鈥檚 dedicated to this work. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a profession, but it鈥檚 also a lifestyle,鈥� he says, admitting that even when he is off duty he is often thinking about his work.
Mr. Castro grew up in a rural hamlet; his discovery of journalism at his university鈥檚 radio station in Mexico City and his early days as a reporter in the capital opened his eyes to social inequalities, he recalls. 鈥淭hrough journalism, 鈥測ou can generate certain changes,鈥� he says, hopefully. 鈥淚 know it鈥檚 just one grain of sand and maybe my work won鈥檛 change everything, but it鈥檚 an integral part of democracy, even imperfect democracies.鈥�
鈥淯nspoken limits鈥�
For a long time, Nohem铆 Vilchis Trevi帽o鈥檚 parents seemed to think that journalism would never be more than her hobby.
鈥淲hen I graduated and wasn鈥檛 looking for PR jobs or to report the weather, my mom sat down to ask me about my future,鈥� recalls the recent journalism graduate in the northern city of Monterrey. 鈥淵ou should find an office job. Use Excel. Don鈥檛 risk yourself as a reporter,鈥� she says her mom told her.
Ms. Vilchis gets it. She never sought an internship at a local newspaper because she knew 鈥渢he first assignment would be to go out and cover local politics or security,鈥� she says. That was an unnerving prospect in Monterrey, a city where shootouts in the historic center and bodies hanging from bridges were not uncommon.
Very few of her classmates are covering local news either. 鈥淎lmost everyone wanted to cover entertainment,鈥� Ms. Vilchis says. It鈥檚 safer.
鈥淭here are unspoken limits about where you can go, what you can cover,鈥� as a reporter in Mexico, she says. Yet, Ms. Vilchis still wants to report on social issues, even if not in a conventional way for daily papers or TV news. She recently started work at a publication targeting academics and policy makers, writing about education and technology.
Sometimes she wonders whether she really shares a profession with reporters spending their time out in the field uncovering difficult and dangerous truths. But, she says, at the end of the day she鈥檚 conducting interviews, thinking critically, synthesizing complicated information, and using professional journalistic skills.
鈥淓ven if not a lot of people are reading it, I have found my purpose in journalism,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 want people to see my work and think, 鈥業 didn鈥檛 know that before,鈥� or 鈥業 hadn鈥檛 thought about it that way,鈥欌�� she says.
鈥淭here is a lot to investigate in Mexico,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot to tell the world.鈥�
