A government agency protects 1,500 journalists
and human rights activists, but it is strapped for resources and its record is
mixed.
JAMES FREDRICK
MEXICO CITY — When Gildo Garza finally fled his
home state of Tamaulipas in 2017 and arrived in Mexico City, he knew where to
go first: the federal attorney general's office. Even if the chances were slim,
he had a sliver of hope investigators would find and prosecute the narcos and
corrupt politicians who wanted him dead for his reporting.
But as he described the threats and violence he
faced, further anxiety filled Garza's thoughts. He didn't know how he could
afford to care for his family in the Mexican capital. Most reporters in his
home state are paid between $75 to $150 per month and he scraped by on multiple
jobs, freelance work and consulting gigs.
"Have you been to see the Mechanism?"
an attorney in the office asked him.
Garza would soon fall into the safety net that
is the Federal Protection Mechanism for Human Rights Defenders and Journalists,
an agency formed in 2012 to address rising violence against activists and
reporters. Today, approximately 1,500 human rights defenders and journalists
are officially receiving support.
"Mexico has levels of violence - and
impunity in that violence - that are comparable to open war zones, even though
Mexico is not officially a country at war," says Jan-Albert Hootsen, the
Mexico representative for the Committee to Protect Journalists. CPJ's Global
Impunity Index lists Mexico at No. 6, only behind active conflict zones like
Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Somalia and South Sudan.
When a journalist is in danger, they can contact
the Mechanism for an assessment.
After evaluating individual risk factors, the
agency can provide journalists with a range of protective measures, like a
bulletproof vest or a bodyguard; security cameras at their home or office;
targeted police patrols; a panic button to alert authorities if they're in
immediate danger. The agency also links journalists to mental health services.
Garza's reporting put his life on the line
"In 2017, I documented two cases of
corruption between the state government and the Los Zetas cartel," Garza
told NPR. He was no stranger to violence: he'd already been kidnapped three
times and a close colleague was murdered in 2013.
But this case was different. The cartel hung a
banner telling Garza he had 24 hours to leave the state or they would kill him,
his wife, his children and "even the dog."
"In the assessment with the agency, the
government of my home state Tamaulipas said I could never return there, that
they could not guarantee my safety," he says. Because of this, the
Mechanism set Garza and his family up with an apartment in Mexico City and gave
them additional financial support, in addition to a bodyguard.
Garza is appreciative of the support during the
worst moments of his life, but over time, he has seen major gaps in the agency.
"It is a beautiful and comprehensive
framework on paper," he says. "But our bureaucracy is indifferent to
the needs of victims."
Garza saw colleagues back home struggling to get
protection in critical moments and started the Association for Displaced and
Attacked Journalists to further advocate for them. CPJ's Hootsen shares similar
critiques of the agency.
"In reality, it doesn't always function
really well," he says. "Many of those [protective] measures actually
don't have the effect. There are a lot of problems in the communication and
coordination from the federal mechanism."
Hootsen says funding for the Mechanism is in
jeopardy and that it's desperately in need of additional staff. The Mexico
City-based bureaucrats often don't understand the unique struggles of being a
vulnerable reporter in rural Mexico, he says. Slow responses are a common
complaint among journalists who need immediate help
A recurring complaint NPR heard from reporters
who have received help from the agency concerned the panic button. This little
cellular device allows a reporter to send a geolocated SOS that will
immediately alert the agency and trusted police forces when a reporter is in
danger. But the devices are often old and faulty and they rely on cell signals.
"The panic button doesn't work where I
live," says Jorge Sánchez, a reporter in Veracruz state. "I'm sitting
in my office and it doesn't get a signal here. I know lots of others who have
it and it's just useless for most of us."
Seemingly minor slip-ups at the agency can have
mortal consequences. In June, a crime reporter in Oaxaca state, Gustavo Sánchez
(not related to Jorge Sánchez), was murdered five months after asking the
agency for help. They had officially listed him as "protected" but
hadn't actually done anything to protect him. Hootsen says Sánchez is at least
the seventh reporter killed while under government protection.
He wants the government of President Andrés
Manuel López Obrador to put more money, plus more and better trained staff into
the agency. But the real driver behind violence against journalists is a
fundamental failure of Mexican society: impunity.
A failure to prosecute crimes against
journalists means no deterrence
"The vast majority of these cases, I would
say anywhere from 90 to 95%, end up lingering in impunity," says Hootsen.
In some cases, the person who pulled the trigger may end up in jail, but the
mastermind behind that crime almost never will.
"It's very, very rare in Mexico to get full
justice," he says. "In fact, I think there may be just two or three
cases where this actually happened."
Jorge Sánchez knows this pain well. Every
January since 2015, Sánchez has protested in front of the Veracruz state
government headquarters over his father's murder that year. Moisés Sánchez ran
La Unión, a small online newspaper based near the port city Veracruz. He was a
thorn in the side of local politicians, Jorge says.
"He often clashed with local
authorities," he says. "I think he took pride in being hated by them.
He received plenty of threats in his life but I guess he never took them
seriously."
When Sánchez published a report linking the
mayor to organized crime in late 2014, threatening calls and messages poured
in. On Jan. 5, 2015, masked armed men burst into their home and kidnapped him.
His body was found 20 days later.
After years of investigating, there is still
only one police officer in prison for the crime, even though he presented
evidence that the mayor had ordered him to "make [Sánchez]
disappear."
"Even though the governments have changed
[and] there have been three governors from three different parties, the
impunity is still here," says Sánchez's son, Jorge. "People will let
me know when they see [the former mayor] having a coffee or out with his
family. He's just free."
Jorge's mother left their hometown after his
father's death, but he insisted on staying. In an act of defiance, Sánchez
decided to continue publishing La Unión in his father's name. He doesn't make
any money from it and his collaborators are all volunteers. They've been able
to keep reporting because Sánchez has had a bodyguard and other security
measures provided by the Federal Protection Mechanism since 2015.
He's happy to have the protection and hopes he
won't have to flee like Garza did. But Sánchez finds his situation, and the
situation of so many journalists in Mexico, perverse.
"The criminals are the ones who should be
thinking about where to go to hide," he says. "Not us, not the
victims."
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