The so-called “war on drugs” is a security strategy declared in 2006 by then-President Felipe Calderón Hinojosa, aimed at attacking and weakening drug cartels through the use of the Armed Forces. However, this strategy has only increased the criminalisation and imprisonment of Indigenous people and represents a continuation of the colonial project through territorial dispossession, the disruption of communities, and systematic violence against marginalised populations. This process has forcibly displaced Indigenous people from their communities, relocating them to distant prisons, where they experience both isolation and physical and symbolic violence.

Indigenous women in detention face specific forms of intersectional violence before, during, and after their incarceration. Although only 5 per cent of the 13,985 women held in state and federal prisons have been officially identified as Indigenous, this is widely considered an undercount, as many Indigenous women are not recognised as such because they no longer speak their languages. According to the National Chamber of Human Rights, among the women whose ethnic affiliation has been recorded, 43 per cent were detained for drug-related offences, euphemistically known as “crimes against health.”

Their incarceration allows the Mexican State to present statistics showing that it is “doing something” against drug trafficking, without damaging the interests of organised crime networks. In fact, imprisoning Indigenous women involved in small-scale drug dealing or the cultivation of natural drugs has not contributed to reducing the impacts of drug trafficking networks. Rather, it leaves their children vulnerable, perpetuating cycles of cultural uprooting and youth recruitment into organized crime groups.

The Imposition of Colonial Law

Over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces, supporting Indigenous women in the writing of their life stories, we have documented that before, during, and after their detention, Indigenous women have suffered racist violence ranging from harassment and discrimination, separation from their children, physical torture, and sexual violence. The occupation of indigenous lands through the construction of prison complexes has been accompanied by the domination of their bodies through police violence.

Judicial racism operates exogenously (outside the judicial institutions) by concentrating militarisation and security strategies in poor, racialised regions inhabited by Indigenous peoples. At the same time, endogenously,  we mean within the justice system that reproduces racist and patriarchal prejudices in its treatment of Indigenous women, who often lack translators and are unaware of their right to a public defender. Moreover, the enforcement of criminal justice in Indigenous territories represents the imposition of colonial law over Indigenous jurisdictions, in violation of the Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, ILO Convention 169, and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Historically, the imprisonment of Indigenous men and women represents a continuation of colonial practices that impose the law of the colonizer in place of Indigenous forms of justice. It is not only problem of the overrepresentation of poor, racialised bodies in prisons, but the imposition of a punitive system that does not respond to the traditional forms of conflict resolution historically developed by the Indigenous Peoples of Mexico. In this way, Indigenous women imprisoned at the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre (Cefereso 16), Mexico’s largest high-security women’s prison, have been displaced from their territories and condemned by a colonial justice system that has systematically violated their rights.

Michapa: Rehabilitation Centre or Colonial Enclave?

Over the Indigenous and peasant territory of Michapa rises the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre No. 16: Mexico’s first and only high-security women’s prison. The centre was built by Grupo Inbursa, owned by the magnate Carlos Slim, under a public-private partnership scheme, and, like many prisons in Mexico, it was established on the lands of Indigenous Peoples. Today, the descendants of the Tlahuica people are small-scale farmers cultivating subsistence crops and tropical fruits on ejido (collectively owned) and communal lands. On these lands, vegetation was cleared to construct a vast prison complex stretching for over a kilometre of frontage, intruding upon the landscape along the isolated road from Amacuzac to Michapa.

The prison’s punitive economy commodifies confinement: the private sector is responsible for designing, building, equipping, and maintaining the facility, while the State, as the service’s client, pays for its full capacity—2,528 cells—whether occupied or not. At the same time, a prison-based textile maquiladora or sweatshop has been established, using cheap labour without employment benefits and using infrastructure subsidised by the State. Workers are paid 250 pesos per week (approximately USD 14.57) through an internal points system redeemable in prison stores, reminiscent of the colonial “tiendas de raya” or “company stores” on the exploitative haciendas during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911).

To enter Michapa is to traverse a territory of oppression. Before arrival, mobile signals are lost, and temperatures of over 40°C turn access into an exercise in endurance. A succession of more than twenty checkpoints form part of a strict bureaucratic-punitive labyrinth, where extreme control functions as punishment for those attempting to enter. Symbolic violence is manifested in the monochromatic, mechanical, and arid architecture, where carefully controlled vegetation greets external visitors, while the areas inhabited by women deprived of liberty contain only synthetic grass that simulates life—as if the denial of life were part of the punishment. This territory constitutes the daily reality for the prison population.

Cell Block 6.1

The conditions of torture, isolation, and lack of medical care experienced by inmates have been identified as primary factors contributing to the deterioration of their mental health. These conditions have reached an unsustainable point, pushing the emotional balance of the women to the extreme and resulting in a distressing and alarming number of suicides: 20 cases recorded in the last two years, up to January 2026. Specifically, the transfers of inmates from other detention centres since 2022 have been cited as a significant factor underlying this wave of suicides, a concern also noted by the National Human Rights Commission and the Federal Institute of Public Defence.

Among the population who have been transferred are Indigenous women from various regions: Mayas from Quintana Roo; Otomís from the States of Mexico and Hidalgo; Nahuas from Guerrero, Morelos, and Puebla; Mixtecas and Chatinas from Oaxaca; Yaquis from Sonora; Wirrarikas from Zacatecas; and one Afro-Guerrerense woman. Following the 2020 detention of Afro-Amuzga human rights activist Kenya Hernández, the Indigenous women of Michapa, guided by her leadership, requested a special Cell block where they could live together and preserve their cultural practices. As a result, Cell Block 6.1 became a multi-ethnic community comprising 18 Indigenous women, detained for federal offences ranging from theft and participation in organised crime to minor offences such as fraud or the falsification of documents.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

As most of the women were accustomed to living in close contact with nature, the prison space itself constitutes a form of violence: they are confined in a grey concrete cell block. It is a circular structure, with cells arranged around a central space where all activities take place, from meals and training sessions to personal hygiene in the showers. The entire Cell block is completely covered in concrete, leaving the Indigenous women without even a single patch of earth to step on. Something as elemental as feeling the soil beneath one’s feet is deeply longed for by these women, who dream of and write about the land, rivers, trees, and all the natural surroundings of their home communities.

Alongside the isolation from their communities, punitive measures such as total solitary confinement continue to be used as forms of control over the prison population. During the three years we worked in this detention centre, we witnessed one case in which a resident of Cell Block 6.1 was beaten, bound by hands and feet, and held in isolation as punishment for her “misconduct.” The continuum of violence that has marked their lives since childhood now includes the legitimised violences of a colonial State, which uses the prison as a means of control, dispossession, and dehumanisation.

Writing as Resistance: Totoltin and Dissenting Voices

In the face of this colonial system of control, the multi-ethnic community has developed its own strategies of collective resistance, creating networks of care. Through the space opened by collective reflection in the Reborn in Writing workshop, the women of Cell Block 6.1 were able to share their stories, get to know one another, and reflect each other’s experiences, engaging in processes of individual and collective healing through writing and the dignification of their memories.

The Hermanas en la Sombra Editorial Collective entered Michapa in 2023 to deliver this workshop across several cell blocks, based on the Identity Writing methodology, which we have developed over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces and systematised in Reborn in Writing: Manual for Feminist Intervention in Spaces of Violence. This methodology represents an exercise in reconstructing subjectivity, enabling women to recover their own voice and denounce structural logics of oppression, affirming themselves as individuals with history, memory, and agency. Engaging with writing also serves as a political tool, allowing Indigenous women to challenge the ways they are represented in official narratives, which reduce them to mere numbers and offences.

Little by little, memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence and oppression, both in their life trajectories and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence, both in their own lives and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Through the written word, the women of Cell Block 6.1 explored, week by week, the themes of the manual: racism, classism, androcentrism, sorority, and misogyny; the myths of romantic love; life stories and the body; autonomy; and transformative and healing writing. These processes of dialogue and writing were accompanied by songs, rituals, readings, and exercises of introspection and reconnection with themselves. In each session, we reflected collectively on life experiences, listening to and recognized ourselves in each other. Gradually, memories were released through writing, many of them shaped by violence and oppression, both in their own life trajectories and in the histories of their ancestors and communities.

In the book we published Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa (2025), Nido recalls her childhood in the Sierra of Sonora and relives the displacement she experienced with her Yaqui family in order to access public education: “The day came to start primary school. I remember the first day well; it was enough to present myself in the hand-embroidered outfit my mother had made me for them to laugh and say I was Indigenous and that the city girls did not understand my language. Gradually, hatred took hold of me, and to this day I drag that chain. Many times they call me ‘Indian,’ ‘shitty Indigenous,’ or sometimes ‘the idiot.’”

Authors—Giving Birth to Their Stories and Pain

After the conclusion of the writing workshop, the texts were digitised, marking the start of a second phase aimed at materialising these stories in the book Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa. The texts were selected and edited by the authors themselves. In addition, they handcrafted the endpapers, learned bookbinding techniques, and poured their hearts into every stage of the process. As several of the 18 participants spoke their mother tongues—mainly Nahuatl, Chatino, Maya, and Zapotec—but were unable to write them, most of the texts were written in Spanish. Some explained that they no longer spoke their languages because racism and discrimination had forced them to forget. In her text “I Grew Up”, Lucía Ramírez, a Nahua woman from Tatahuicapan de Juárez, recounts the hardships and deprivations of her childhood:

Nej ni guella ken inon pelotzit zit cuak illek qui mel cajtek (I grew up like little puppies abandoned by their mother),
noselti (alone), nictemo ken nia ni isatotik (trying to figure out how to survive).
Ne niteki pano nochipa aun quej poins ni ciahuia pues alla ni llole catca (I worked, always getting very tired because I was still so small).

In the final sessions, the women reflected on the transformative process they had experienced and its impact during the workshop. Leticia Pérez, a Nahua woman from Puebla, expressed: “I see the book as something we all gave birth to together, something we have been working on for months and that is now going to be released—yes, it’s going to come out, comrades! It represents our stories, but also what we have suffered. I don’t know how you will see it, but for me, we all gave birth to it together.” The collective birth metaphor shared by “Mamá Lety” illustrates how writing strengthens community bonds and connection. By recognising themselves as authors—giving birth to their stories and pain, reframed, collectivised, and materialised in the book-object, they construct memories narrated in their own words, imbued with poetic, political, and emotional power.

It is within the prison, a hostile space designed for control, that writing emerges as a symbolic womb from which resistance and community are produced and “born.” Writing allows the imagination of forms of subjectivity not defined by the punitive logic of the State, but by the capacity to create, narrate oneself, resist, and reaffirm oneself as an individual with history, memory, and agency. Through it, the authors of Totoltin share collective memories portraying the conditions of violence, exclusion, oppression, and dispossession faced by Indigenous women in twenty-first-century Mexico.

Final Reflections

Prisons continue to function as instruments of punishment, control, and territorial dispossession of Original Peoples across the Americas. In this sense, Totoltin: Doves. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa can be considered part of the archives of Indigenous resistance, and specifically of Indigenous women. The continuity of the colonial project in the Americas has been denounced through various textual strategies, ranging from political manifestos to songs, chronicles, and poetry. The silence of complicity has been broken, and nothing can silence these voices.

These denunciations also include testimonies of the diverse forms of resistance that women have developed to defend life and build community, even in contexts where the violences of colonial States isolate them through laws that justify the seizure, displacement, and dispossession of their territories. We hope that this text echoes their call to tear down the walls of these colonial enclaves, disguised as Social Rehabilitation Centres. As Yanetzin Marcelo describes in the poem that gives the book its title, it is a call to continue resisting collectively:

Dear Doves,
Build your nest and groom yourselves
Protect yourselves alone and in a flock
You are strength, will, courage, and life
Resist dying within those cells
Write, love, sing, and dance
And always stay in the air

Totometzinti
Xmotlahpialikan
Xmonapalokan
Nehuame maka xmikan
Xkelnamikan nimochikawalis
Xpatlanikan, xmititikan, xmotlasohtlakan
Nochipa xnemikan

(Yanetzin Marcelo, Poem Palomares–Totohmetsinti)

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In this regard, reforms alone are not enough, nor can they produce results simply by being enacted, unless they are supported by policies, models or strategies capable of bridging the gap between the lived realities of Indigenous Peoples and the provisions of the law. The issue is straightforward: if existing policies are failing to deliver the expected outcomes, it is necessary to move towards others that offer broader and more effective results. To date, the cultural pluralism or diversity recognised in the Federal Constitution has remained largely symbolic, as the daily reality continues to be marked by poverty, racism, involuntary migration and the loss of ancestral territories.

For this reason, once constitutional reforms recognising Indigenous rights have been adopted—something that may be regarded as a first step—it becomes essential to question whether the current model for managing diversity, namely multiculturalism, is fulfilling its intended objectives. Or whether, in fact, it is being overtaken by a social reality in which cultural diversity and the increasingly active presence of Indigenous Peoples, both nationally and internationally, have become the rule rather than the exception.

The Rise of Multiculturalism

When it comes to the situation of Indigenous peoples in Mexico, multiculturalism has been unable to address their longstanding challenges. Their rights, territories and cultural practices continue to be violated. Although multiculturalism was implemented in the 1990s, largely through constitutional reforms, the model entered into crisis partly because it never moved beyond the simple acknowledgement of a fact that was both self-evident and long ignored: the country’s cultural diversity.

While the multiculturalist approach was, at the time, regarded as the most suitable option, it was also perceived as a threat to the nation-state. The belief —still present today— was that the coexistence of multiple cultures within the same national space could weaken the presumed national unity and political and social stability. Ultimately, the intercultural model has shown that a formally recognised multicultural reality is not, in itself, synonymous with meaningful coexistence among diverse peoples and cultures sharing the same territory.

We refer to interculturality as a dynamic approach or process that seeks to engage with the diverse forms of expression that coexist within a shared environment.

We refer to interculturality as a dynamic approach or process that seeks to engage with the diverse forms of expression that coexist within a shared environment.

We do not, of course, wish to downplay the achievements of multiculturalism, as the constitutional recognition of cultural diversity in 1992 was far from a minor milestone. Nevertheless, acknowledging cultural differences and alternative ways of understanding reality has not been enough. In many ways, multicultural policy ended up reinforcing differences through a form of recognition that did not foster interaction among the various sectors of society. Consequently, considering alternative models for managing diversity is not optional; it is essential if the aim is to build a more democratic, just and inclusive society.

In this regard, the emerging paradigm that presents itself as a genuine alternative is interculturality. By this, we do not mean interculturality as mere interpersonal exchange or as a political slogan devoid of engagement with real problems. Rather, we refer to interculturality as a dynamic approach or process that seeks to engage with the diverse forms of expression that coexist within a shared environment. Achieving this requires interest, mutual learning and a deeper understanding of the needs, traditions, practices and customs of different groups. In short, it calls for a genuine commitment to understanding other ways of life.

Interculturality: A New Paradigm

Interculturality is becoming increasingly necessary in light of the limits and deficiencies that multiculturalism has shown in Mexico, particularly in the way the State relates to Indigenous Peoples. In practical terms, interculturality may be understood as a model for managing diversity that argues for both the possibility and the necessity of achieving a higher level of coexistence among different social groups, grounded in dialogue and constructive interaction.

It is a dynamic approach that goes beyond merely recognising and accepting the existence of diverse social groups within a shared environment. Rather, it is a way of life — a way of living interculturally. From another perspective, it represents an aspiration towards a form of coexistence based on the acceptance of difference, one that requires the interaction of heterogeneous cultures within the same social space.

Interculturality may be understood as a model for managing diversity that argues for both the possibility and the necessity of achieving a higher level of coexistence among different social groups, grounded in dialogue and constructive interaction.

Interculturality may be understood as a model for managing diversity that argues for both the possibility and the necessity of achieving a higher level of coexistence among different social groups.

It entails, as noted above, the recognition and understanding of other cultural expressions, mutual respect, an increased capacity for communication and interaction with people from different cultural backgrounds, as well as the ongoing promotion of attitudes and actions that strengthen cultural diversity. As an emerging paradigm, interculturality is characterised as a comprehensive model that takes into account elements that go beyond merely making discrepancies visible.

Interculturality is not based solely on the simple inclusion of “others”: it implies a structural and constructive transformation in which dialogue and interaction enable greater participation and acceptance. In this sense, minority groups are not pressured or influenced to move away from, abandon, or dilute their customs, traditions, and other cultural traits. Rather, it refers to the intercommunication among diverse forms of knowledge in a way that allows each to maintain its own identity, grounded in a critical and respectful attitude towards both one’s own culture and that of others.

Towards an Intercultural Horizon

In Mexico, public policies have largely focused on intercultural education. However, there has been little in-depth engagement with the situation of Indigenous Peoples from a truly intercultural perspective. Broadly speaking, there is limited awareness of the conditions in which they live, highlighting the need to adopt an intercultural approach. In addressing cultural diversity, interculturality emphasises mutual experience, cooperation, exchange, and dialogue between the State and Indigenous Peoples, fostering a form of coexistence enriched by diverse worldviews and ways of thinking.

This model seeks interaction between cultures in a manner that allows them to preserve their cultural identities through an open, inclusive, and proactive stance within a framework of peaceful coexistence, moving beyond the simplistic majority–minority dichotomy. It represents a necessary step towards transcending a multicultural reality that, until now, has largely limited itself to recognising inequalities without addressing them. Accordingly, it is essential to strive for an intercultural horizon in which diverse expressions and cultural manifestations coexist and mutually enrich one another.

The formal recognition of cultural diversity must not remain limited to ceremonial acts. It requires addressing the real demands of these peoples, fulfilling a series of ethical and political commitments.

The formal recognition of cultural diversity must not remain limited to ceremonial acts.

In other words, interculturality is not fulfilled merely by recognising and respecting cultural diversity within a shared environment; it seeks to achieve a deeper level of understanding through a critical stance grounded in equality and tolerance. It involves the possibility of building bonds of understanding between these groups with the aim of fostering cultural fraternity and freedom. It promotes an attitude of appreciation and respect for diverse cultural expressions. In a sense, it represents a shift from authoritarian approaches towards the creation of channels of communication between the Western world and Indigenous Peoples.

The formal recognition of cultural diversity must not remain limited to ceremonial acts. It requires addressing the real demands of these peoples, fulfilling a series of ethical and political commitments both domestically and internationally. It is important to remember that Mexico is a signatory to various international instruments that recognise and require the enforcement of Indigenous rights. Interculturality entails responding to the needs and demands for development, justice, and even the survival of this sector of society.

Legislating from an Intercultural Horizon

In this regard, one fertile area in which interculturality can be implemented is the legislative sphere, without precluding its application through other public policies. Accordingly, legislating with an intercultural approach allows for the creation of channels of communication and mutual recognition on a basis of equality and respect for customs, traditions, worldviews, modes of organisation, and ways of perceiving reality. Over time, this will foster a form of legal pluralism grounded in equality, which recognises other rights as equally valid and deserving of respect and consideration.

Legislating from an intercultural horizon entails acknowledging and valuing the diverse political and legal systems of Indigenous Peoples as genuine rights. This emerging paradigm should serve as a guiding principle that contributes to enhancing the social, cultural and political significance of these groups and as a means of effectively upholding their rights. The objective is to create an environment of coordination rather than subordination, in which differences are not obstacles but opportunities to build a better society.

In the present century, the paradigm that should prevail in Mexico is one of unity based on heterogeneity, enabling a transition towards peaceful coexistence.

In the present century, the paradigm that should prevail in Mexico is one of unity based on heterogeneity, enabling a transition towards peaceful coexistence.

Unlike other models for managing differences, interculturality aims to build symmetrical relationships based on the distinct identities of Indigenous Peoples. Hence, it is necessary to create laws that do not overlook Mexico’s multi-ethnic reality. Interculturality is a paradigm concerning cultural diversity that is founded on respect, coexistence, dialogue and learning. For this reason, it allows us to envision a scenario in which diverse cultures can coexist and build a more democratic, inclusive and tolerant society.

In the present century, the paradigm that should prevail in Mexico is one of unity based on heterogeneity, enabling a transition towards peaceful coexistence. All of this occurs within a framework of tolerance that values differences, dignity, and various ways of thinking, fostering an atmosphere of mutual learning.

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Despite the countless cases of forced displacement in the Sierra Tarahumara, there is still no updated estimate of the total number of people affected, as the state has failed to carry out a census — despite existing legal mandates. However, in 2022, a coalition of civil society organisations documented 61 displacement events affecting at least 1,703 people. The report was submitted on the occasion of the official visit of Cecilia Jiménez-Damary, United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Human Rights of Internally Displaced Persons.

In just the last two years, media outlets have reported on hundreds of displaced families across various mountainous municipalities, mainly belonging to the Rarámuri, Ódami, Pima and Guarijío peoples. This crisis reflects the power of criminal organisations that, beyond controlling territory, have also infiltrated political, police, and institutional structures.

Organised crime and the State’s response

When Felipe Calderón took office in 2006, he launched the so-called “war on drugs”. Over the course of his six-year presidency, more than 70,000 violent homicides were recorded. Yet the results were far from what had been promised: drug cartels multiplied and had formed their own armed wings. As drug trafficking expanded, violence escalated dramatically. Despite these catastrophic outcomes, subsequent presidents continued to adopt similar strategies — which only fueled further bloodshed.

In contrast, the administration of Andrés Manuel López Obrador (2018–2024) was marked by inaction in tackling drug trafficking, enabling criminal groups to grow, fragment and wage violent battles over territory. With the election of Claudia Sheinbaum, and under pressure from the United States to curb fentanyl trafficking and strengthen border control, a new security policy has been announced. However, in the Sierra Tarahumara, there have been no tangible improvements so far.

These dynamics have led to the diversification of criminal economies: large-scale illegal logging; the takeover of ejidos (Mexico’s legal form of communal land ownership); extortion of local businesses (including tourism); levies imposed on social welfare recipients; alcohol sales; and the illicit extraction of gold — with artisanal miners (gambusinos) also forced to pay “protection fees”.

Forced to flee

Violence manifests in varying degrees of intensity, but most often begins with prolonged sieges that restrict access to food, healthcare, and education. At its most extreme, it escalates into heavy armed clashes, which can sometimes last for days. In the absence of any meaningful response from the authorities, residents have little choice but to remain trapped inside their homes. Armed groups — commonly referred to as “los malos” or “los malandros” — threaten families to force them into joining their ranks, creating a pervasive atmosphere of fear.

When they are able to flee, families often do so on foot to avoid detection — a journey that severely strains their physical and emotional well-being, particularly for children and elderly people. By the time they reach a community willing to receive them, they are typically hungry, sick, cold, and utterly exhausted.

Although many families resist leaving their communities, the rise in violence — including killings, threats, sexual violence, and forced recruitment — eventually compels them to flee in order to protect their lives and freedom.

Although many families resist leaving their communities, the rise in violence — including killings, threats, sexual violence, and forced recruitment — eventually compels them to flee in order to protect their lives.

The territorial control exercised by criminal groups often involves restricting the supply of food in order to weaken rival factions. This strategy frequently leads to severe malnutrition — especially among already vulnerable children — which is only detected when medical brigades manage to reach the area, something that is becoming increasingly rare. Schools are also affected: as violence intensifies, teachers stop attending, resulting in significant educational setbacks for children.

Although many families resist leaving their communities, the rise in violence — including killings, threats, sexual violence, and forced recruitment — eventually compels them to flee in order to protect their lives and freedom. Even so, displaced people are often stigmatised or criminalised by authorities and the broader society, who question their motives or suspect them of links to criminal groups.

Interrupted agricultural cycles, forced recruitment, and sexual violence

The effects of forced displacement manifest at community, family, and individual levels, with distinct impacts according to gender and age. Furthermore, threats and displacement deeply disrupt collective organisation, interrupt communal decision-making, undermine cooperation among families, and halt traditional ceremonies observed by the entire community.

As violence interrupts agricultural cycles, families become reliant on external aid for their survival. Land and homes are lost, and displaced individuals who cannot return home are forced to start over in environments that prevent them from producing their own food or maintaining their cultural practices. Displacement entails a process of deterritorialisation: leaving the land also means being separated from Indigenous identity, which is intimately tied to the natural environment. Families once sustained by life on the ranch now live in overcrowded conditions and must take on new, often precarious, economic activities.

Young men are forcibly recruited; if they refuse, they are accused of belonging to rival cartels, threatened, and in extreme cases, killed. Many families flee specifically to protect them. Meanwhile, young women face the risk of sexual violence, which often leads to preventive displacement. In some families, older adults resist leaving their homes, and their relatives support them from afar, as displacement frequently causes emotional trauma that can lead to illness among the elderly.

Communities under attack

In September 2024, the community of Cinco Llagas, in the municipality of Guadalupe y Calvo, was subjected to multiple armed assaults. Those with the means to flee did so as soon as the siege began. Subsequently, state and federal authorities gathered the population in the local school but provided minimal humanitarian aid and failed to establish safe conditions for evacuation, despite the continuing violence.

By contrast, in Santa Tulita and its surrounding rancherías, families resisted displacement with support from civil society organisations. Although many managed to remain in their community, men are unable to leave to obtain supplies, and isolation persists. This area is the most significant social centre for the Ódami people, who were forced to witness their homes being looted or destroyed, their livestock stolen, and their lands occupied. The State has failed to ensure the protection of property or the safe return of displaced persons.

In early 2025, a priest, a local community leader, and a military general were also targeted in shootings. Consequently, classes and religious services were suspended in June, and the municipal president of Guadalupe y Calvo urged residents to remain indoors amid the wave of violence.

In early 2025, a priest, a local community leader, and a military general were also targeted in shootings. Consequently, classes and religious services were suspended in June

Similarly, in December 2024, hundreds of families fled their homes in the Dolores area, driven by terror as gunfights were not only frequent but sometimes lasted for hours or even days. In early 2025, a priest, a local community leader, and a military general were also targeted in shootings. Consequently, classes and religious services were suspended in June, and the municipal president of Guadalupe y Calvo urged residents to remain indoors amid the wave of violence.

Despite the intensification of armed attacks by criminal groups, the authorities remain utterly indifferent to the suffering of the community. Recently, Chihuahua’s governor, Maru Campos, stated that no armed clashes between criminals occurred in Guadalupe y Calvo, claiming that the gunfire consisted solely of shots fired into the air to create a sense of insecurity. However, what is happening in this municipality is being mirrored in others such as Uruachi and Moris: in the past six months, hundreds of families from the Guarijó people have been displaced to urban areas to escape the armed conflict.

Standing strong, with dignity and joy

Through the strengthening and training initiatives carried out by communities in Mala Noche over the past three years, it has become evident that communal solidarity is the fundamental means to protect and uphold the collective rights of Indigenous Peoples. Remaining on their ancestral lands and securing sustainable livelihoods are essential foundations for communities to live together, exercise their rights, and express their cultural identity and traditions.

However, comprehensive programmes offering durable solutions remain absent. Some initiatives, such as Sembrando Vida, which require beneficiaries to stay within their territories, have helped certain families maintain connections to their communities and consider returning when conditions permit. Yet, these measures fall short in addressing the profound challenges of displacement, violence, and injustice.

Meanwhile, Indigenous communities in Guadalupe y Calvo resist daily, striving to protect life and adapt to their new realities, standing firm with dignity and, at times, with joy.

Indigenous communities in Guadalupe y Calvo resist daily, striving to protect life and adapt to their new realities, standing firm with dignity and, at times, with joy.

The lack of recognition of the collective rights of Indigenous Peoples, the absence of a public policy on violence prevention that incorporates the perspectives and participation of the communities themselves, as well as the failure to acknowledge the problem and its consequences, are among the reasons why the issue of internal forced displacement remains invisible, discredited, and minimised by the Mexican State.

Instead of support, those affected are criminalised and abandoned to their fate, while the official narrative continues to deny their reality — thereby denying the victims themselves. This represents a serious omission and a grave violation of the rights of Indigenous peoples and communities in Chihuahua and throughout Mexico. Meanwhile, Indigenous communities in Guadalupe y Calvo resist daily, striving to protect life and adapt to their new realities, standing firm with dignity and, at times, with joy.

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Among the most well-documented recent displacements is the expulsion of thousands of Tsotsil and Tseltal families from the Los Altos region during the 1980s, due to their affiliation with Protestant evangelical churches. These expulsions occurred in municipalities where traditional Catholic majorities integrate religious festivities and hierarchies into their normative systems. Other forced resettlements followed the construction of the Chicoasén, Malpaso, and La Angostura hydroelectric dams, and the 1982 eruption of the Chichonal Volcano, which led to the relocation of much of the Zoque population from the municipality of Francisco León to the Lacandon Jungle.

Further displacement stemmed from agrarian boundary disputes, caused by overlapping and poorly defined allocations of ejido and communal lands—particularly in Chalchihuitán, Chenalhó, Aldama, and the Lacandon Community Lands between 1970 and 1980. In more recent years, displacement has occurred due to the 1994 armed conflict; the devastating impact of Hurricane Stan in 2005, which hit both the coastal and highland regions; the actions of paramilitary groups linked to organised crime in several areas; the rise of self-defence groups and the declaration of the autonomous municipal government of Oxchuc in 2018; and the conflict surrounding mining operations in Chicomuselo. In this context, some anticipate new conflicts triggered by the renewed push to build the highway connecting Palenque and San Cristóbal.

Displacement Caused by Socio-Environmental Disasters

In the absence of a comprehensive legal framework regulating the federal government’s obligation to intervene, it was not until 1998 that the United Nations General Assembly established a Special Rapporteur on Internal Displacement. The first to hold the post, Francis Deng, introduced the Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement, which laid the foundations for a political and discursive framework where international humanitarian law and human rights converged. These Principles offered specific guidance on the rights of displaced individuals and communities, as well as on the State’s duty to prevent displacement, respond to crises, ensure protection, and pursue lasting solutions.

In Mexico, population displacement resulting from socio-environmental disasters has been addressed within the regulatory framework of Civil Protection, as defined by the Legal Research Institute of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Civil Protection encompasses the set of actions aimed at responding to needs identified or raised by society in the face of imminent or actual disasters that endanger life, property, or the environment.

This federal responsibility was formally established in the 1990s with the enactment of the General Law on Civil Protection. Its antecedents date back to 1966, with the creation of the DN-III-E Natural Disaster Response Plan by the Ministry of National Defence, designed to address the damage caused by severe flooding in the Papaloapan River Basin that same year.

Chiapas: A Geostrategic Vertex

Situated at the crossroads of North and Central America, Chiapas holds a distinct geostrategic position. It functions as a transboundary migration corridor. It is marked by deep sociodemographic diversity, and features a rugged and mountainous landscape that increases its vulnerability to socio-environmental disasters. The region is also characterised by persistent political unrest and structural economic inequality. Between 1979 and 1984, Chiapas played a pivotal role in the development of Civil Protection policy by recognising the presence of refugee camps sheltering tens of thousands of Guatemalans who had fled the genocidal war against Indigenous communities. In 1994, it also officially acknowledged the displacement of populations resulting from the armed uprising of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN).

The 2000 electoral process marked a watershed moment in the redistribution of political power: for the first time in six decades, the opposition defeated the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) and gained a parliamentary majority in Congress. In the wake of this shift in governance, the Coalition of Autonomous Organisations of the State of Chiapas (COAECH)—which represented the interests of Indigenous communities—alongside the Catholic Church, placed the plight of those displaced by the 1994 conflict at the centre of the political agenda and denounced the systemic failure of public institutions to provide them with comprehensive care and long-term solutions.

In March 2001, the first direct response forums for victims of forced displacement due to violence and human rights violations were established in San Cristóbal de Las Casas.

In March 2001, the first direct response forums for victims of forced displacement due to violence and human rights violations were established in San Cristóbal de Las Casas.

Within the framework of the Guiding Principles of the United Nations General Assembly’s Special Rapporteur on Internal Displacement, the Secretariat for Indigenous Peoples (SEPI) of the newly elected state government collaborated with the Human Rights Centre of the Diocese of San Cristóbal de Las Casas. Together, they formed a dedicated inter-institutional group of experts on forced displacement. As a result of this joint effort, the governor formally recognised all those displaced during the 1994 armed conflict and the ensuing counterinsurgency campaign, as well as the surviving families of the 1997 Acteal Massacre.

In March 2001, the first direct response forums for victims of forced displacement due to violence and human rights violations were established in San Cristóbal de Las Casas. Through this intervention strategy, 19 displaced population groups were identified and documented, representing a total of 155,000 people. A protocol for applied research was also developed to verify and cross-check the details of each of their individual cases.

Ups and Downs in Public Policy

The range of displaced groups involved in the assistance forums organised by SEPI and the Human Rights Centre did not include Zapatista families who had been displaced and subsequently resettled in the autonomous community of Polhó, within the constitutional boundaries of the municipality of Chenalhó. The same was true for displaced families from Zapatista communities in the municipality of Sabanilla. Humanitarian aid for the displaced Zapatistas was provided by the International Committee of the Red Cross, in agreement with both the governor and the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN).

By the end of Vicente Fox’s federal administration in 2006, the assistance forums addressing displacement caused by the armed conflict and the Acteal massacre had enabled the return of 90 per cent of the 155,000 displaced individuals who were resettled in peaceful, sustainable, and official communities. However, during Felipe Calderón’s administration (2007–2012), the key actors responsible for managing displacement due to violence, armed conflict, and human rights violations shifted. The SEPI and Human Rights Centre forums were discontinued, and the Red Cross ceased operations in Chiapas.

The assistance forums addressing displacement caused by the armed conflict and the Acteal massacre had enabled the return of 90 per cent of the 155,000 displaced individuals who were resettled in peaceful, sustainable, and official communities.

The assistance forums addressing displacement caused by the armed conflict and the Acteal massacre had enabled the return of 90 per cent of the 155,000 displaced individuals

Nonetheless, a new management framework emerged with the support of the Spanish Agency for International Development Cooperation and four United Nations agencies coordinated under a peacebuilding project: UNESCO, UNICEF, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), and the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), alongside Foro para el Desarrollo Sustentable AC and other civil society consultants. This intervention was focused specifically on assisting those displaced by the armed conflict in Tila, Salto de Agua, and Ocosingo—individuals who had not secured solutions through earlier assistance forums.

The collaborative efforts of displaced groups, civil society organisations, and multilateral agencies paved the way for the proposal of a state law addressing forced displacement to the desk of the governor. Aligned with international standards, the bill was unanimously approved by the State Congress in 2012. This marked the first legislation on forced displacement in Mexico’s history. Pursuant to its transitional provisions, the State Council for Internal Displacement was established and implemented, thereby broadening the institutional remit of Civil Protection.

A Passive Government Deepening Displacement

The Covid-19 pandemic brought institutional activity to a near standstill, paralysis from which it has yet to recover. Meanwhile, the state’s situation has worsened dramatically. The administration of Andrés Manuel López Obrador (2018–2024) has been characterised by complete neglect, facilitating unchecked growth in criminal activity and organised crime. As a result, corruption has permeated all public institutions, and new forced displacements due to territorial dispossession have occurred, leading to an unprecedented scale of migratory diaspora among Indigenous communities fleeing armed violence.

At a time when conditions could scarcely be worse, the new state government—supported by the ruling national party—has pursued the legalisation of a paramilitary group known as Los Pakales, an illegal armed force aiming to impose a de facto peace through military means. Using this approach, it has intervened in territories where violent mass displacements of entire communities have taken place, including Frontera Comalapa, Chicomuselo, Tila, Pantelhó, Aldama, and several municipalities across the Sierra, Frailesca, and Fronteriza regions.

To date, there is no comprehensive record of the population still living in a state of humanitarian crisis. Although the state government maintains a contradictory rhetoric—promising but withholding humanitarian aid for the displaced—it outright denies the occurrences that have taken place during its administration.

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The hegemonic worldview embodied in the rhetoric of Protestant liberal democracy—which has monopolised the ethical narrative of universal human rights since 1948—has become increasingly implausible. Multilateral conventions and institutions tasked with arbitrating political and diplomatic relations among states have lost their legitimacy. This crisis was first exposed by the wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya; later by the Covid-19 pandemic; and now by their criminal silence in the face of the genocide of the Palestinian people perpetrated by Israel. The entire United Nations system, imposed by the victorious powers of the Second World War, is now equally discredited.

The change of regime in Mexico

In this context, the crisis of effectiveness and legitimacy affecting multilateral institutions is also reshaping the semantic and political relationship between states and their peoples. The alignment of constitutional systems with international standards is losing ground as a legal and political paradigm. International diplomatic pressure—whether against authoritarian or totalitarian regimes, or in response to the military interventions of dominant powers—has ceased to carry the symbolic and pragmatic weight it once did.

As a result, globalist, neoliberal, extractivist agendas have entered into open contradiction with sovereign and nationalist forms of state organisation. This tension is evident in matters of jurisdiction and governance: public security, territorial control, the management of strategic resources, and the monopoly on violence as a means of upholding the public interest over private interests. The pressing question is whether we are witnessing the emergence of a new mode of decolonisation—or not.

Under the administrations of Andrés Manuel López Obrador and his successor, Claudia Sheinbaum Pardo, a populist discourse has taken root, positioning itself in opposition to the interventionist political and economic models institutionalised under the Bretton Woods system.

This so-called “new regime” has overseen a marked escalation in the militarisation of civilian public institutions

In Mexico, the 2018 presidential election triggered a paradigm shift at the federal level, allowing for a redistribution of politico-administrative power and, to some extent, of parliamentary influence. This shift displaced local elites who did not align themselves with the sovereigntist discourse of the elected president. By the end of 2024, the election of a new federal Executive from the same political party—alongside an overwhelming majority in both chambers of the National Congress—consolidated the change in regime.

Under the administrations of Andrés Manuel López Obrador and his successor, Claudia Sheinbaum Pardo, a populist discourse has taken root, positioning itself in opposition to the interventionist political and economic models institutionalised under the Bretton Woods system. However, this so-called “new regime” has overseen a marked escalation in the militarisation of civilian public institutions, while simultaneously discrediting and criminalising the work of civil society actors engaged in defending human rights.

Indigenous Peoples as Collective Subjects of Political and Territorial Rights

Since the Mexican government signed the ILO Convention 169 in 1990, and its ratification by the Senate in 1991, three constitutional reforms have been carried out to align national laws and institutions with these standards: in 1992, 2001 and 2024. Beyond the gradual shifts in parliamentary rhetoric, a new discursive formation has emerged among Indigenous Peoples and their communities around their specific rights—aimed at denouncing violations, demanding enforceability, and promoting dissemination in all their native languages.

While a progressive evolution in the national legal framework on Indigenous rights can be observed, the Mexican State continues to explicitly—and negligently—refuse to grant full constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ collective territorial rights. This omission is particularly serious given that territorial rights are a fundamental condition for the right to life, as established in the jurisprudence of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. In this context, the right to self-determination with autonomy, and the principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent, remain little more than rhetoric and propaganda.

Neoliberal extractivist economic policies have widespread violence across their territories, seen as vast reservoirs of strategic resources.

Neoliberal extractivist economic policies have widespread violence across their territories, seen as vast reservoirs of strategic resources

With nearly 24 per cent of its 125 million inhabitants, Mexico has the largest absolute Indigenous population by self-identification in the Americas. This figure also represents a vast ethno-linguistic mega-diversity that remains deeply rooted in its biocultural territories. However, traditional communities and their territorial heritage find themselves at a crossroads of violence, dispossession, and the systematic violation of rights that threatens their very existence.

At the end of the 20th century, Mexico’s Indigenous population underwent a profound sociodemographic shift, triggering a large migratory diaspora to urban areas, agro-industrial zones, and the United States. Simultaneously, neoliberal extractivist economic policies have widespread violence across their territories, seen as vast reservoirs of strategic resources—hydrological, genetic, mineral and energy-related—constituting a multifactorial cause of their forced displacement.

The Impact of Mexican Indigenous Organisation

The political discourse surrounding Indigenous rights facilitated the emergence of a heterogeneous and unprecedented movement, connecting organisations and communities from all regions of the country. This movement expanded to encompass the broader continental Indigenous movement and catalysed new strategies for dialogic engagement with governments, the creation of cross-border networks, and even the formation of armed self-defence groups. Additionally, the use of digital technologies was strengthened to support coordination, advocacy, and the denunciation of rights violations before the Inter-American Human Rights System.

A new generation of leadership thus emerged, characterised by the widespread inclusion of women within organisational, representative, and authoritative structures. Despite resistance from legislators and officials across the political spectrum, political mobilisation has driven recurring changes in both secondary legislation—which regulates the Federal Constitution—and the state constitutions of the federative entities.

The political discourse surrounding Indigenous rights facilitated the emergence of a heterogeneous and unprecedented movement, connecting organisations and communities from all regions of the country.

The political discourse surrounding Indigenous rights facilitated the emergence of a heterogeneous and unprecedented movement, connecting organisations and communities from all regions.

It is impossible to offer a simple account of the struggles for resistance against dispossession, political autonomy, and the recognition of these communities as part of the State’s jurisdiction. Among the most emblematic instances are the formation of the National Indigenous Congress (1993); the armed uprising of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation in Chiapas (1994); the National Congress of Indigenous Women (1996); and the establishment of the Community Police of San Luis Acatlán alongside the Regional Coordinator of Community Authorities in La Montaña de Guerrero (1995–1998).

Equally notable are the creation of the National Front of Indigenous Peoples Displaced by Dams, acknowledged by the Movement Against Dams in Brazil (1997); the Coordinator of Autonomous Organisations of the State of Chiapas (2000); the election of municipal authorities according to customary law in Cherán, Michoacán (2011); and the formation of self-defence groups in Chiapas and Michoacán (2015–2025).

Business Consortiums, Organised Crime and Forced Displacement

Alongside the development of autonomist movements, both public and private, legal and illegal forms of forced displacement due to territorial and biocultural dispossession have intensified. Industrial consortiums and organised crime, in their transnational dimension, act as de facto powers seeking control or co-optation of the State. Their success is therefore directly linked to the levels of corruption and impunity among public officials. In 2024, the Federal Executive ordered its senators to block the general law on forced displacement, which had been approved by the Chamber of Deputies in 2020 in line with international standards.

What is observed in Mexico and across Latin America is a constantly diversifying and deepening spectrum of private interests over Indigenous territories: massive extraction of mineral and energy resources; appropriation and control of water, wind and solar power; infrastructure megaprojects; real estate “developments”; agro-industries and intensive livestock production; biopiracy for cosmetics, processed foods, fertilisers and pharmaceuticals industries; high-impact or elite tourism exploitation; trafficking of drugs, weapons, migrants, archaeological pieces and endemic species.

Even more serious is that displacements caused by dispossession intersect with violence such as extrajudicial killings, forced disappearances and involuntary recruitment. Without legal guarantees over their lands and heritage, communities are exposed to all forms of criminality, in a context where the Armed Forces are unable to ensure the integrity of the national territory. Likewise, the Police Forces lack the capacity to guarantee public security or the protection of individuals and communities.

In the Face of Ethnocide, Resistance

Over the past 30 years, civil society organisations and activist scholars have accompanied Indigenous communities displaced or at risk due to violence, insecurity, and human rights violations linked to resource extraction. In contrast, displacements caused by environmental disasters are generally addressed by Civil Protection institutions and do not involve territorial dispossession. We have been able to identify early warning indicators that make prevention possible—provided there is political will from the competent authorities.

Phenomenologically, there is a threshold within communities most deeply rooted in their biocultural knowledge and practices, where ancestral primary production methods persist and their connection to the territory guarantees food and energy autonomy—even under conditions of isolation and subsistence. When external agents with interests in water, biotic, mineral or energy resources arrive, this subtle fabric is structurally broken, causing productive displacement (involuntary resettlements due to infrastructure works and development projects) that disrupts the fundamental reproductive chains of community formation.

Community processes of resistance, defence, and organised struggle against ethnocide require strategic alliances with civil society defenders, social communicators, activist scholars, and multilateral non-governmental supporters.

Community processes of resistance, defence, and organised struggle against ethnocide require strategic alliances with civil society defenders, social communicators, activist scholars, and multilateral non-governmental supporters.

When households lose food and energy self-sufficiency, a gradual shift in consumption patterns is triggered, within a context where lack of income drives economic migration, especially among younger adults. Consequently, communities rapidly become impoverished, and their normative systems weaken, facilitating internal divisions that pave the way for de facto dispossession, which is later formalised legally. Ultimately, when communities are forcibly displaced, their ethnolinguistic ethos disappears within a single generation.

Community processes of resistance, defence, and organised struggle against ethnocide require strategic alliances with civil society defenders, social communicators, activist scholars, and multilateral non-governmental supporters. In the context of the violence prevailing in Mexico, political negotiation for legal guarantees over their territories is the cornerstone for preventing the extinction of traditional communities due to dispossession.

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During the administration of Roberto Sandoval Castañeda (2011–2017), a clear and deep entanglement emerged between political power and organized crime. For Indigenous Peoples, this manifested in escalating violence within their communities, driven by the struggle between the Sinaloa Cartel (CS) and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) for control over their territories. This conflict was sparked by the CJNG’s incursion into areas historically dominated by Sinaloa-linked groups, a shift enabled by the double-selling of trafficking routes (“plazas”) by local political figures.

The Objectives of Violence

Nearly eight years after the end of that administration, the close ties between state politics and drug trafficking groups appear to persist—at least from the perspective of many residents in Indigenous communities. On the contrary, signs of collusion between criminal organizations, the state, and political parties—particularly at the municipal level—are increasingly evident. The forms of violence employed by these groups against Indigenous populations have become ever more brutal, along with far-reaching, multidimensional impacts they inflict on the daily lives of individuals, communities, and entire peoples.

These groups pursue a range of objectives in the region: controlling the production, distribution, and consumption of drugs; recruiting young people—often as lookouts or hitmen, essentially as cannon fodder; monopolizing the sale of beer and gasoline; and extorting local commercial, agricultural, livestock, and fishing activities through so-called “protection fees.” All of this serves to finance their armed operations, secure their continued presence in the area, and maintain control over trafficking routes as well as the safe zones and mobility corridors used by their leaders.

Through coordinated efforts, the state, economic elites, and criminal actors seek to divide and set communities against one another in order to weaken their resistance to megaprojects. This strategy was clearly evident during the construction of the Las Cruces hydroelectric dam, the exploitation of mining concessions without community consent (such as the Jazmín del Coquito project), and land disputes over agricultural use in Huajimic. In all these cases, pressure exerted by the state and economic interests was bolstered by the intimidating presence and actions of armed criminal groups.

In the face of the various forms of violence imposed by drug cartels on the daily lives of Indigenous communities, a range of responses has emerged: adaptation, displacement, spontaneous reactions, attempts at organized resistance, and a latent capacity for innovation.

Adaptation or Community Displacement

First and foremost, communities attempt to adapt in their daily lives. In territories where cartels have consolidated their presence and control, the use of violence becomes more subtle. If there are no open confrontations with rival criminal groups, the cartel may normalize its presence in everyday life and establish agreements with traditional and civil authorities to ensure its interests and practices prevail—such as the collection of fees, monopolization of product sales, and price fixing.

Cartels also take part in community festivities, provide financial support for their organization, and even intervene as a kind of paralegal authority when disputes arise. Over time, criminal groups become omnipresent, maintaining total surveillance over the area and its inhabitants—even making use of technological tools such as drones. In these cases, their presence does not necessarily translate into overt aggression against the population, particularly not against women. Residents live in an “imagined peace,” accompanied by a constant undercurrent of fear.

Second, when daily adaptation becomes intolerable, Indigenous Peoples are often left with no alternative but to flee. In territories where a fragile peace has been established, any act of defiance against the order imposed by the cartel—such as selling goods to other buyers or refusing to pay extortion fees—can trigger a brutal response. This may involve threats, forced disappearance, torture, or murder, targeting not only the individual but sometimes their entire family. In such cases, fleeing to another municipality, another state, or even the United States becomes the only option for survival.

This is even more likely when violent clashes erupt between rival criminal groups vying for territorial control. When threats and killings suddenly become the norm, forced displacement no longer affects just one person or family—it sweeps through entire communities, leaving ghost towns behind. This is currently the case in the municipality of Huajicori, where at least six rural communities have been displaced amid the violent struggle for control of the border with Sinaloa.

Between Spontaneity and Organization

A third alternative involves spontaneous responses. These tend to arise in situations where abuse has become persistent but the overall context has not yet escalated into widespread violence against communities—often because no single criminal group has fully established territorial control. One example of such reaction was the community lynching of alleged perpetrators or collaborators in acts of violence. This occurred in the municipality of Del Nayar, where three municipal police officers were shot and then burned inside their vehicle.

A fourth form of response is the attempt at organized resistance. In the community of Santa Teresa, residents reactivated the traditional institution of community policing to confront both the criminal groups looting timber from the region and the police authorities who protected them. Additionally, the police used intimidation tactics against local inhabitants to pressure them into approving the Las Cruces hydroelectric project, which the Federal Electricity Commission sought to construct on the San Pedro River. There were also strong suspicions of collusion between municipal authorities and foreign mining companies interested in exploiting gold and silver deposits in the area.

The call to establish a community police force began to spread throughout the region, with its members arming themselves using whatever means they had at their disposal. The initiative came to a halt when numerous state police detachments were deployed to the area and its main promoter, Pedro Hernández Delgado—communal land commissioner of Santa Teresa—was arrested on charges of criminal association. In this way, the State effectively dismantled the emerging community police force.

Finally, a fifth form of response lies in communities’ latent capacity for innovation. Despite the deep deterioration that violence and drug use have brought to everyday life, Indigenous communities have managed to sustain their resistance. This capacity stems from the cultural and organizational strengths rooted in community life. However, once residents realized that the State itself had undermined their organizing efforts—by intervening early to demobilize the community police—that spark was extinguished entirely.

New Forms of Resistance

Despite the immense challenges faced by Indigenous communities, some are now exploring ways to reorganize in order to confront them. For certain local leaders, the path to addressing the violence and social breakdown affecting their communities lies in a return to culture, traditional worldviews, and the wisdom and spiritual guidance of elders. This involves reviving community organization, customary norms, and traditional political life, while also strategically leveraging the rights enshrined in the Mexican Constitution and in international agreements signed by Mexico.

At the same time, communities are rethinking their forms of struggle and strategies. While they continue to rely on traditional systems of communal organization and a deeply rooted commitment to defending their land, they increasingly possess the human and intellectual resources to push back on multiple fronts—cultural, social, legal, media, and political. In addition, they are making more effective use of both conventional and alternative media, as well as cutting-edge technologies, to advance their struggles.

This article is a summarized version of the forthcoming text “Drug Trafficking and Violence in the Territories of Indigenous Peoples in Nayarit”, to be published in the book “Mexico: Autonomies from North to South in Violent Contexts”, edited by Araceli Burguete and Carmen Ventura.

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Building on milestones such as the First Inter-American Indigenist Congress held in Pátzcuaro in 1940, the signing of international treaties in the second half of the 20th century, the Zapatista uprising of 1994, and the demands of Indigenous organizations in the 1990s, intercultural bilingual education has gained national prominence. This is evident in the establishment of the General Directorate of Intercultural and Bilingual Education and the creation of several Intercultural Teacher Training Colleges (Escuelas Normales Interculturales), all under the oversight of the Ministry of Public Education.

Within this context, two main currents shape the actions aimed at advancing intercultural and bilingual education: those driven by the Mexican State and those developed by civil society actors. While these initiatives may at times be in opposition, they also offer opportunities for dialogue, convergence, and mutual transformation. As such, they can involve both direct confrontation with state education policies and ongoing critical reflection on them.

The New Mexican School

A compelling example can be found among the teachers of Section 22 of the National Coordinating Committee of Education Workers (CNTE) in the state of Oaxaca. Although they are state employees and teach in schools under the Ministry of Education, many of the intercultural and bilingual educational practices they implement are based on their own pedagogical model. This Plan for the Transformation of Education in Oaxaca (PTEO) is not philosophically grounded in interculturality, but rather in communality—the Indigenous way of life in Oaxaca, which encompasses cultural and linguistic diversity as a central axis.

Intercultural bilingual education policies promoted by the State have shifted from being mere instruments of cultural assimilation to embracing a critical intercultural perspective, as reflected in what is known as the New Mexican School. The current national curriculum explicitly positions critical interculturality as a core principle: “An ongoing dialogue with reality beyond the classroom, within school spaces and in the community.” In this framework, interculturality refers to the interaction, dialogue, mutual questioning, and co-construction of knowledge among diverse linguistic, cultural, social, and territorial identities—within contexts marked by structural inequalities.

Despite the many challenges that persist in applying an intercultural bilingual approach to classroom practice, the current Mexican curriculum urges teachers to “develop formative processes and pedagogical relationships that enable students, throughout basic education, to understand the colonial logic embedded in our everyday human experience.” Established in 2019, the National Collective of Intercultural Bilingual Teacher Training Colleges is working on a curriculum proposal for initial teacher education grounded in interculturality. This initiative is aligned with the principles of the Mexican Constitution and the foundational goal of the New Mexican School: to close historical gaps in equity and ensure recognition of the educational rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Intercultural Universities and Community-Based Practices

At the higher education level, intercultural universities supported by the Mexican State began to emerge in 2003. While official discourse emphasizes their academic quality and cultural and linguistic relevance, in practice, these institutions often reflect a convergence between neoliberal multiculturalism and experimentation with intercultural and decolonial educational innovations. Each university’s educational experience is distinct, highlighting tensions and contradictions, but also generating diverse responses that allow for differentiated approaches to intercultural education.

Alongside these institutions, there are important efforts led by cultural organizers, Indigenous communities, academic researchers, civil society organizations, and Indigenous educators who promote practices aligned with intercultural bilingual education. These initiatives foster territorially-grounded knowledge and pedagogies that are culturally relevant and centered on Indigenous languages. Particularly noteworthy is the intergenerational transmission of knowledge within Indigenous communities, which has sustained native languages, traditional rituals, systems of self-governance, sociopolitical organization, and relationships with ancestral territories.

Although such community-based practices often go unrecognized in academic discourse, they represent some of the most robust and meaningful efforts toward culturally and linguistically relevant education. Additionally, there are more widely known experiences—such as the autonomous Zapatista education system in Chiapas, community-based education in Cherán (Michoacán), and education initiatives in the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca—that are more structured and involve broad participation from a range of educational actors. In some cases, they have formed alliances with scholars and activists interested in supporting and strengthening local educational models.

Intercultural Universities and Community-Based Practices

At the higher education level, intercultural universities emerged in 2003 as initiatives promoted by the Mexican State. While official discourse emphasizes their academic quality and cultural and linguistic relevance, in practice these institutions reveal a convergence between neoliberal multiculturalism and experimentation with educational innovations grounded in intercultural and decolonial approaches. Each university’s experience is distinct, exposing both tensions and contradictions, as well as diverse responses that contribute to differentiated forms of intercultural educational practices.

In parallel, there are significant efforts led by cultural organizers, Indigenous communities, academic researchers, civil society organizations, and Indigenous educators who develop educational practices aligned with intercultural bilingual education. These initiatives promote knowledge and pedagogies that are territorially rooted, culturally relevant, and conveyed through Indigenous languages. Particularly vital is the intergenerational transmission of knowledge within Indigenous communities, which sustains native languages, ceremonial practices, self-governance systems, sociopolitical organization, and relationships with their ancestral territories.

Although community-based educational practices often go unnoticed by mainstream academic research, they represent some of the most consistent and grounded efforts toward culturally and linguistically appropriate education. Moreover, there are well-known cases such as the Zapatista autonomous education system in Chiapas, community education in Cherán (Michoacán), and similar initiatives in the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca. These efforts are more systematized and involve broad participation from various educational actors. In some cases, they form alliances with academics or activists interested in supporting and strengthening local educational practices.

Four years after the signing of the Declaration, it is clear that the situation of Mexican Indigenous languages has not improved. Their displacement continues to progress, and there are still no concrete, targeted actions addressing each language individually. On the contrary, the genuine efforts are still being led by the speakers themselves, most often without the financial support necessary to strengthen these processes.

Former president Andrés Manuel López Obrador’s discourse has brought Indigenous peoples and languages into the national spotlight. However, his approach has often been diluted with folkloric elements, and despite good intentions, cultural and linguistic aspects have been trivialized, used merely as symbolic gestures for national celebrations or political events. This situation has exposed the racist undertones of Mexican society, evident in discriminatory comments directed at Indigenous cultures on social media. It underscores the urgent need to interculturalize education and institutions in order to foster a more dialogical society.

Building Bridges to Revitalize Languages

While progress has been made both in discourse and practice, particularly in relation to intercultural educational practices, much remains to be done to strengthen Indigenous languages. Bilingualism still tends to favor Spanish at the expense of the dozens of Indigenous languages and their variants. It is crucial that both state-led efforts and individual initiatives build bridges for collaboration and dialogue, in ways that are considered appropriate, with a common goal in mind: the strengthening and revitalization of our Mexican languages and cultures.

Furthermore, it is important to highlight the role played by teachers working in Indigenous contexts, particularly those who take an autonomous, self-managed approach. An example of this is the graduates of the Bilingual and Intercultural Teacher Training College of Oaxaca. During the 25th anniversary of the educational institution, they reflected on their teaching trajectories and emphasized the lack of educational materials in Indigenous languages. However, they also pointed out various strategies they had developed on their own, such as puppet shows, bingo games, audiovisual materials, books, games, and songs. This reflects a deep commitment from the teachers to Indigenous children.

Finally, we must acknowledge that the efforts at the primary school level to implement intercultural bilingual education are often hindered because at the secondary level, there are virtually no educational models with an intercultural bilingual perspective (except in some cases, such as Indigenous community secondary schools). The same situation applies at the higher secondary education level. For this reason, there is a need to develop an integrated education system in which an intercultural framework prevails, ensuring the reinforcement of these practices throughout the students’ entire academic journey.

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The reforms introduce several key provisions: recognition as subjects of public law with legal personality and their own assets; autonomy to manage public resources; the right to Free, Prior, and Informed Consultation for projects impacting their territories; and protection of their cultural and territorial heritage. The reform also includes specific sections on the rights of Afro-Mexican peoples and a separate chapter addressing the rights of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican women. While many of these rights already have international recognition, they have now been incorporated into Mexico’s legal framework, which remains largely positivist and state-centric.

The process of drafting the reform was complex. It was led by the National Institute of Indigenous Peoples (INPI), which carried out consultations with thousands of community authorities. However, it did not meet the standards of true consultation as set out by the expert mechanism. Consequently, rather than a genuine consultation, it can be said that the process amounted to a series of forums where opinions were simply recorded.

Challenges and criticisms of the constitutional reform

The recognition of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican peoples as public law entities with legal personality and their own assets presents a series of challenges and criticisms that must be addressed to ensure it does not remain a legal framework without real impact on their living conditions.

First, although the status of “public law entity” grants communities greater control over managing their resources, including the ability to directly receive and manage public funds, it does not automatically translate into empowerment. A lack of administrative capacity, infrastructure, and access to proper training can significantly limit their ability to exercise this right effectively. Without state support in financial management and public administration training, the promised autonomy may become hollow and, and worse, result in mismanagement or dependency on external actors.

While the reform marks an important step toward formalizing collective rights, there is a risk that this recognition could be used as a rhetorical tool without the State’s genuine commitment.

Another key criticism of the reforms is the potential political instrumentalization of the recognition of legal personality as collective public law entities. While the reform marks an important step toward formalizing collective rights, there is a risk that this recognition could be used as a rhetorical tool without the State’s genuine commitment to equipping communities with the necessary means to exercise these rights. There have been numerous instances where legal recognition has not translated into tangible improvements in people’s lives, fostering frustration and distrust toward the government.

The recognition of communities’ own assets is another essential but complex component. Allowing communities to autonomously manage their assets means they can make decisions regarding the use of their lands, as well as their natural and cultural resources. However, in practice, this autonomy can be hindered by structural inequalities that have left Indigenous territories vulnerable to the pressure of external actors seeking to exploit their resources for extractive or infrastructure projects. This is further exacerbated by the presence of organized crime. Without clear mechanisms to protect these assets, the recognition of their autonomous management could end up being more symbolic than substantial.

The risk of consultations continuing to be conducted as they have been up to now

Free, Prior, Free, and Informed Consultation is one of the key pillars of the constitutional reform, as it aims to ensure that Indigenous and Afro-Mexican communities actively participate in decisions affecting their territories and ways of life. However, despite its importance, this mechanism faces numerous critical challenges that undermine its effectiveness and, in some cases, perpetuates existing inequalities. For example, protocols are often designed by the State without the involvement of the communities themselves, as was the case with the so-called consultations on the misnamed “Maya Train.”

The main risk is that consultations will continue to be carried out in the same manner as before, meaning they remain merely procedural and fail to comply with international standards established by ILO Convention 169 and the Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. On many occasions, prior consultations conducted in the context of megaprojects have been superficial, without ensuring that communities genuinely understand the scope of projects and their long-term impacts. This has led to distrust toward the State and project proponents, weakening the mechanism’s purpose and turning consultations into a formality rather than a meaningful exercise of self-determination.

Corporations and the State often possess greater resources and access to technical information, placing communities at a disadvantage when it comes to negotiating or fully understanding the impact of projects.

A second risk is the lack of genuine consent from the communities. While the reform establishes the right to consultation, it does not always guarantee that communities have the option to reject projects they deem harmful. In many instances, consultation is employed as a mechanism to legitimize decisions that have already been made well in advance by the State or corporations, reducing communities to mere spectators in a process that does not necessarily respect their will. This creates a fundamental contradiction between the right to self-determination promoted by the reform and the actual practice of how these processes are conducted.

Furthermore, the power imbalance between communities and economic actors is another significant obstacle. Corporations and the State often possess greater resources and access to technical information, placing communities at a disadvantage when it comes to negotiating or fully understanding the impact of projects. Without adequate support—such as interpreters, legal counsel, or specialized advocates—communities are vulnerable to external pressures that may influence their decisions. This lack of equilibrium in consultations fosters an inequitable environment where economic interests tend to overshadow the territorial and cultural rights of the communities.

Additionally, there is a recurring criticism regarding the lack of follow-up and effective enforcement of agreements made during consultations. Even when communities succeed in influencing decisions, the commitments made are frequently not honored, perpetuating a sense of abandonment and distrust. Without clear accountability mechanisms and independent oversight, prior consultations become a process without real consequences for companies or the government, reinforcing the perception that they are merely formalities rather than genuine exercises of justice.

The challenge of ensuring that legal pluralism does not remain merely symbolic

The reform also establishes the protection of the cultural and territorial heritage of communities, recognizing their normative systems and legal pluralism. However, this legal recognition presents several challenges that must be addressed to prevent these advancements from remaining merely symbolic. First, it is unclear how these systems will effectively interact with the national legal framework, particularly given that the constitutionally recognized legal pluralism in Mexico is unitary rather than egalitarian. It is not Indigenous peoples who establish their rules for engagement with the State; rather, it is the State, through Mexican positive law, that dictates them.

The coexistence of two legal systems could create tensions and conflicts regarding jurisdiction, especially in contexts where territorial rights and economic interests clash. Without clear mechanisms to harmonize Indigenous laws with national laws, this recognition risks becoming a declaration without significant practical impact. Moreover, intercultural justice requires comprehensive and committed training for judicial operators—including judges, lawyers, and public defenders—which has not been adequately addressed in the reform.

In terms of strengthening social cohesion, it is crucial to recognize that legal pluralism may, in some cases, exacerbate inequalities within communities. Not all communities possess the same capacity for organization or resources, which could lead to internal conflicts over the interpretation and application of their own normative systems. While the reform allows for greater control over territories, it must be accompanied by policies that promote equity within the communities themselves to prevent deepening existing asymmetries.

A reform that could be merely symbolic

In relation to climate justice, recognizing the territorial and cultural rights of Indigenous communities is a crucial component for environmental protection, as these communities have historically acted as guardians of biodiversity. However, this approach encounters tensions with the economic interests of the State and extractive companies, which continue to prioritize megaprojects without acquring the genuine consent of the affected communities. Climate justice can only be achieved if the voices and traditional knowledge of Indigenous communities are respected in decision-making processes regarding their territories, necessitating a profound shift in development policies.

Regarding gender equity, the reform includes provisions for the participation of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican women in decision-making. However, this progress is insufficient unless it is accompanied by concrete measures to ensure that these provisions are effectively implemented. Within communities, women face barriers both within their cultural contexts and in their interactions with the State, which calls for specific empowerment and support policies to guarantee that their participation is not merely idealized on paper. Achieving this will require the active involvement of Indigenous peoples as complex systems.

Historically, the Mexican State has granted formal recognition of Indigenous peoples’ rights but has not committed to transforming the power dynamics that perpetuate exclusion and marginalization.

One of the most pressing issues is the lack of clarity regarding how the allocation of specific budgetary resources will be ensured to implement the recognized rights. Without adequate funding, the mechanisms for Prior, Free, and Informed Consultation could devolve into mere formalities, lacking genuine decision-making power for communities. Moreover, any promised autonomy could be rendered meaningless if communities do not have the necessary resources and infrastructure to manage their own projects.

Finally, there is a risk that the reform will remain a symbolic or rhetorical acknowledgment without profound structural changes. Historically, the Mexican State has granted formal recognition of Indigenous peoples’ rights but has not committed to transforming the power dynamics that perpetuate exclusion and marginalization. Without a substantial shift in economic policies that prioritize extractivism and commercial interests, the reform’s impact could be significantly limited.

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As is widely known, the federal executive, represented by the President of the Republic, Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO), has made it a habit to discredit those of us who dare to say: “Mr. President, international standards for consulting Indigenous peoples must be upheld.” This situation is worsened by the presence of organized crime in various regions of the country, particularly in rural areas inhabited by both Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities. For some, organized crime has already become authorized crime.

The lack of legal (and even a moral) obligation, as well as the lack of expertise and diligence to stop the exodus of entire communities casts doubt on the seriousness of the actions the Mexican federal government designs and implements to safeguard Indigenous and rural territories. Could it be that, for AMLO and his government, the communities forced into displacement are too few to represent the millions of Mexicans? If so, does one life not matter as much as thousands? In that case, is the life of a few not worth saving if the rest are not living the nightmare of organized crime with the tacit approval of the authorities?

Reforms that don’t help

The reforms implemented by the outgoing administration have regulated the rights of Indigenous and Afro-descendant peoples. However, rather than strengthening their reinforcement, these reforms have forced them to conform to the preexisting unequal unitary pluralism institutionalized in Article 2 of the Constitution (enacted in 2001 and amended in 2019). Furthermore, the proposed reforms, particularly in Indigenous matters, undermine the 2011 Human Rights constitutional framework. The most significant reforms are the following:

1. The proposed amendment to Article 2 of the Political Constitution of the United Mexican States, which seeks to recognize Indigenous peoples as subjects of public law, recently approved by the Chamber of Deputies.
2. The reform to the Health Law regarding traditional and Indigenous midwifery, alongside the corresponding National Policy on Traditional Medicine and Midwifery.
3. The decree establishing the National Catalogue of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican Peoples and Communities.

In addition to the above, the National Council of Indigenous Peoples, a body created within the Federal Government known as the National Institute of Indigenous Peoples, drafted a judicial reform proposal. The central focus of this proposal is that the Federal Judiciary should incorporate the principles of multiculturalism, interculturality, legal pluralism, and gender equality, while also recommending Indigenous quotas for positions within the justice system. Below, we address the most relevant points.

Article 2 of the Mexican Constitution

Let us remember that in August 2001, Article 2 of the Political Constitution of the United Mexican States was amended to recognize Indigenous peoples as subjects of public law. In that amendment, the criterion of “consciousness of being” was established as a mechanism of “self-identification” for the self-designation of Indigenous peoples and individuals.

However,  in the current reform, approved this year by the Chamber of Deputies, the paragraph that established consciousness of being Indigenous as a criterion for recognizing Indigenous peoples and individuals was removed. The remaining paragraph states: “For the recognition of Indigenous peoples and communities, in addition to the general principles established in the previous paragraphs of this article, ethnolinguistic, physical settlement, and self-identification criteria must be considered.”

Reforms that claim to support Indigenous or Afro-descendant peoples fail to address the structural roots of inequality in racism, discrimination, paternalism, assimilationism, and racialization.

Reforms that claim to support Indigenous or Afro-descendant peoples fail to address the structural roots of inequality.

As a result, the condition for recognizing subjects of public law with legal personality and their own assets was added. “Indigenous peoples and communities are recognized as subjects of public law with legal personality and their own assets.” This is commendable as it opens the door to realizing the long-standing demand (since the Zapatista uprising and the San Andrés Accords) for the recognition of a fourth level of government, beyond the federal, state, and municipal levels. However, instead of amending Article 115 which outlines the structure of the state, only Article 2 of the Constitution was modified.  And so what happened? It is likely that the representatives of the status quo resisted sharing power with Indigenous peoples.

Meanwhile, in the municipality of Chicomuselo (Chiapas), communities mobilized against barite mining. The response from organized crime was violent: they forcibly displaced dozens of communities. Equally troubling has been the state’s tolerance of this violence. How will Indigenous communities effectively assert their right to be subjects of public law, exercise their authority, and protect their territories? The Huichol people face a similar struggle, being suffocated by organized crime, and their leader, Maurilio Ramírez Aguilar, was kidnapped. Thus, reforms that claim to support Indigenous or Afro-descendant peoples fail to address the structural roots of inequality in racism, discrimination, paternalism, assimilationism, and racialization.

Indigenous and traditional midwifery

The reform to the Health Law concerning traditional and Indigenous midwifery is significant because it recognizes the biocultural knowledge of Indigenous and Afro-descendant peoples. However, the problematic practices within the public health system in its interactions with these communities, particularly with women and men practicing traditional midwifery, suggest that its implementation will be very challenging until fundamental racism within the sector, as well as the attitudes of operators and their practices, are addressed.

Although the government has established protocols for health personnel to implement these laws, local and national midwifery movements, as well as the National Agenda for Traditional Midwifery, highlight the risks and dangers of not starting from within to address these issues. In essence, they argue arrogant, colonial, racist, and hegemonic attitudes within the health sector towards traditional knowledge and Indigenous medicine obstruct the effective implementation of Indigenous midwifery.

Given the criminalization they have faced, midwives are skeptical about the development of an official standard that will fulfill this objective, which violates the right to consultation according to international standards. Additionally, there is a risk of perpetuating clientelism, imposition, privileges, and inequality, even among those practicing traditional midwifery. This is particularly relevant as it concerns both Indigenous midwives and those who gain this knowledge under privileged conditions and demand the same treatment.

Bureaucratization and the lack of representation

The National Catalogue of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican Peoples and Communities aims to facilitate access to resources for communities that possess their identification cards. This raises concerns about why bureaucratic processes are being increased for peoples already facing megaprojects, organized crime, and forced displacement, especially when official databases already exist. What will happen to groups that are also part of the multicultural landscape but are privileged by colonialist policies, such as the Mennonites who have devastated the Yucatán Peninsula?

Furthermore, the National Council of Indigenous Peoples (CNPI) has proposed reforms to the Federal Judiciary to more closely align it with principles of multiculturalism, interculturality, legal pluralism, and gender respect. The proposal highlights Indigenous jurisdiction in so far as  “The Federal Judiciary must coordinate with Indigenous peoples and communities to respect and exercise Indigenous jurisdiction (…). In circuits with Indigenous and Afro-Mexican populations, efforts should be made to ensure that proposals are considered from individuals who meet the specified requirements and are familiar with the Indigenous culture and language of the jurisdiction”.

What is concerning about the CNPI is that it is not a representative body of Indigenous people and was established without following international consultation standards. Additionally, the proposal fails to address the root causes of structural inequality, and, in the current context of violence and human rights violations, the reforms appear to be superficial rather than substantive. They seem to only seek to change bureaucracies and reinforce old political elites or replace some with new ones. In practice, these reforms do not eliminate privileges or close the gaps in inequality and the implementation of rights for all.

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