Northern Mexico's State of Anarchy

Residents Abandon a Border Town as Vicious Drug Cartels Go to War
MIGUEL ALEMÁN, Mexico—Ciudad Mier, a picturesque colonial village on the Texas border, was a sleepy tourist attraction until February, when two rival drug cartels turned it into a slaughterhouse.

Caravans of armored SUVs crammed with gunmen firing automatic rifles prowled the streets. Parents pulled terrified children from schools. The town of 6,000 went dark every time the combatants shot out the transformers. In May, a man was hung alive from a tree in the central plaza and dismembered while town folk heard the screaming from behind shuttered doors.

Rival Mexican drug gangs have turned Ciudad Mier from a tourist town into a ghost town. WSJ's Simon Constable talks to reporter Nicholas Casey about the ravages of the drug war in Mexico's Tamaulipas state.

Then last week, after a new offensive by the Zetas, one of the two groups that have turned the town into a no-man's land, hundreds of residents packed what they could into their cars and fled, leaving eerily empty streets with burned out shells of cars and bullet-pocked walls.

"It's like we're in the Wild West," says Santos Moreno Pérez, a Pentecostal minister who is among the refugees here in neighboring Miguel Alemán. "We have no mayor, no police, no transit system. We have been left to fend for ourselves."

Two years ago, the U.S. military warned that the Mexican government was "weak and failing" and could lose control of the country to drug traffickers. Mexican officials quickly rejected the assertion, and in truth the most dire predictions now seem overblown. Mexico's economy is rebounding from the aftershocks of the U.S. recession, with gross domestic product growth expected to top 4% this year. Foreign companies not only haven't fled, they continue to make some investments along the country's northern manufacturing belt where much of the drug war is playing out. Mexico City and large parts of south so far have escaped the mayhem, and the country as a whole remains stable.

Still, some parts of Mexico are caught in the grip of violence so profound that government seems almost beside the point. This is especially true in northern places like Ciudad Mier and surrounding Tamaulipas state—a narrow, cleaver-shaped province that snakes along the Texas border and hugs Mexico's Gulf Coast.

Across Tamaulipas, gunmen run their own checkpoints on highways. The cartels have forced Mexico's national oil company to abandon several gas fields. Many farmers have given up on tons of soybeans and sorghum in fields controlled by criminals. Leading families, fleeing extortion and threats of kidnapping, have escaped to Texas—as have the mayors of the state's three largest cities.

Most of the brutality that takes place along this vast arid landscape goes unrecorded. Newspapers as well as television broadcasters have been silenced. Rumors have taken the place of news and circulate on social networks like Twitter, which people check regularly to make sure that no shootouts are taking place on the routes they take to work or school.

"Public space has been taken over by criminals, and Tamaulipas society is at their mercy," says Carlos Flores, a visiting professor at the University of Connecticut who studies the state's crime groups.

As goes Tamaulipas also go a small but growing number of Mexico's 31 states, including Chihuahua and Michoacán—places where rival organized crime groups either exert political and territorial control or are in the midst of bloody battles to impose their hegemony. In these states, despite four years of intense effort, the Mexican government and its institutions hold little sway.

The failure of Tamaulipas carries consequences for the U.S. The state shares roughly 230 miles of border with Texas and handles nearly 50% of the merchandise moving between the U.S. and Mexico. Only a river separates it from the U.S. cities of Laredo, McAllen and Brownsville.

Last month, an American riding a jet ski on Falcon Reservoir, a border lake not far from Ciudad Mier, was shot dead by suspected cartel gunmen, his body never recovered. Days later, the severed head of the lead Mexican investigator on the case was dumped in a suitcase in front of a Mexican army barracks.
Mexico's Failing State



A woman from Mier comforted her children after a shootout near the building where they have sought shelter in the neighboring town of Miguel Alemán.
Drug Killings

Nearly 23,000 people have died in drug-related violence since 2006, according to the government, with northern border states experiencing the worst of the violence.




In the state capital of Ciudad Victoria, the man poised to win the state governor's election was ambushed and shot dead in broad daylight this summer, along with his four bodyguards. Two months later, Mexican marines arrived at a secluded ranch and found a grotesque sight—the bodies of 72 would-be immigrants to the U.S who had been lined up and executed. Authorities blamed the Zetas. The investigator in the case was murdered two days later.

Despite such gruesome milestones, Alejandro Poiré, President Felipe Calderón's spokesman on security matters, disputes the notion that Tamaulipas is falling into anarchy. "Tamaulipas is not a failed state," he says. "Organized crime is being fought with strength and determination." He says that Tamaulipas continues to provide public services, collect taxes and organize elections. He notes that violence is concentrated in eight out of the state's 43 municipalities, and that authorities have scored a number of successes against drug lords.

Outgoing governor Eugenio Hernández also said the state's troubles have been exaggerated. "We are far from being a failed state," Mr. Hernández said in an interview in the capital city of Ciudad Victoria. "We are working. We have order. There are some eye-catching events, but most people have no problems."

Days after the interview, the governor struck a less optimistic note, telling journalists that "municipal and state forces, on their own, can't do very much [against organized crime], which is why it's urgent that the federal government send reinforcements to the border region."

The troubles in Tamaulipas stems from a turf war which broke out early this year between the Gulf Cartel and the Zetas, two former allies in drugs and organized crime, now fighting for control of the state. More than 90% of Tamaulipas is in the hands of the crime groups, says a newsman there.

The fighting has caused more than 1,300 deaths so far this year in the state, or one in six drug-war killings nationwide, mostly members of rival gangs, according to the federal government. Since President Calderón took office in December 2006 and declared war on traffickers, about 31,000 people have died.

For Mexico's armed forces, Tamaulipas and next-door Nuevo León, where the fight between the Zetas and the Gulf Cartel has spilled over, are Mexico's most dangerous states. So far this year, the army has been attacked 128 times across Mexico; 91 of those attacks have taken place in Tamaulipas and in Nuevo León, up from only three the previous year.

On a recent day, unknown assailants threw a grenade at an army base in the border city of Matamoros, just across from Brownsville, while cartel gunmen fought in broad daylight in Reynosa, the state's biggest city.

The armed forces have scored some successes. Earlier this month, about 660 Mexican Navy special forces fought a 10-hour battle in the streets of Matamoros with some 300 gunmen from the Gulf Cartel. Fearing stray bullets, the University of Texas at Brownsville on the other side of the Rio Grande suspended classes. The battle ended with the death of one of the cartel's top leaders, Ezequiel Cárdenas Guillén, known as Tony Tormenta.

Ciudad Mier, Tamaulipas's abandoned town, could offer a glimpse of where Mexico may head if the conflict remains unchecked. In 2007, the government declared it a "Pueblo Mágico," or Magic Village, a special designation to attract tourists to the cobblestone streets and artisan markets.

"This was a town where we had outdoor dances, art fairs," recalls a 20-year-old school teacher who fled Ciudad Mier and declined to give his name. People gathered freely for family baptisms or quinceñera celebrations, when girls turn 15. "You walked around at night in Ciudad Mier," he says.

But trouble was brewing here and in the rest of the state. Since the 1980s, Tamaulipas had been home to the Gulf Cartel, which began as an outfit that smuggled electric appliances into Mexico's closed economy and turned into one of the country's largest drug-trafficking groups as trade opened to the U.S. The Gulf Cartel's leader, Osiel Cárdenas Guillén, the younger brother of Ezequiel, planted the seeds for the present bloodletting when he persuaded 31 highly trained Mexican army special forces soldiers, called the Zetas, to defect and work as enforcers for the cartel in the early 1990s, analysts and government officials say.

Mr. Cárdenas Guillén was arrested in 2003 and extradited to the U.S. in 2007. He was sentenced to 25 years in prison this February in a Texas court, although court transcripts say he is cooperating with authorities, which could lead to a sentence reduction. Mr. Cárdenas Guillén's lawyer, Chip B. Lewis of Houston, declined to comment on his client's purported cooperation.

As Mr. Cárdenas Guillén's case was coming to a close, his former allies the Zetas broke from the Gulf Cartel. Now believed to number in the low thousands, they declared a war to grab control of illegal markets, which spread throughout the state.

Though peaceful, Ciudad Mier, a short drive from Roma, Texas, was ripe for conflict. The town and surrounding area had long been a Zeta stronghold. This year, analysts say, the Gulf Cartel tried to oust the Zetas.

On Feb. 23, the city was plunged into chaos after several dozen SUVs arrived at the municipal police station, sacked the facility and took officers hostage. No one has seen them since. Not long afterward, residents found a group of decapitated heads from unknown victims on the outskirts of town.

Ciudad Mier began to collapse. After an attack on the water-treatment facility this year, the town had no drinkable water as workers were too frightened to begin repairs, residents say. For a week this fall, parts of the city had no water at all. Electrical outages became frequent after attacks on transformers. Finding gas became impossible when the city's one gas station was shot up. Residents say they headed to neighboring Miguel Alemán to fill up their cars.

While schools remained in session, parents often refused to send their children, deeming it unsafe. "Every child I taught was thinking: 'I'm next to be killed,'" says a town teacher, who recalled that a theater class he taught suddenly sank from 20 students to just four.

Medical services were scant. "The pharmacies were closing down or weren't open," recalls an 87-year-old man who fled the town last week. Manuel Alejandro Peña, a general practitioner who heads a branch of the state's health office in the village, recalled that he was unable to get penicillin for two months this summer when drivers couldn't safely make the journey from the city of Nuevo Laredo, fearing they'd be attacked on the highway.

"We watched our medicine reserves begin to vanish," Dr. Peña recalled.

By last week, the city was ravaged again. Emboldened by the death of Mr. Cárdenas Guillén, the Gulf Cartel leader known as Tony Tormenta, Zetas staged a counterattack, townspeople say. Signs leading into the town were pocked with hundreds of bullet holes, along with nearly every major building in town.

Except for a few holdouts, nearly all the former residents have fled. Some moved in with family members elsewhere in Mexico or the U.S. About 300 refugees now bunk on cots at a local Lion's Club in nearby Miguel Alemán, a larger city down the road which is thought to be less violent. On a recent day, an older deaf woman sat in a wheelchair by herself as a dozen children watched morning cartoons.

Yet even this place offers limited sanctuary. During a visit by a reporter, automatic-rifle shots broke out as drug gunmen and army troops confronted each other a short distance from the shelter. The refugees screamed and took cover on the floor.

"Don't worry, nothing will happen to us," a mother said to her crying son.

A short time later, the mayor's sister arrived. "Everything is all right," she told the anxious crowd. "They wouldn't have sent me if I were going to get killed here."

Outside experts and residents say the state is unable to defend itself now partly because it failed to confront the cartels earlier. Indeed, they say the Tamaulipas government kept close ties to the Gulf Cartel, an arrangement that worked well until the Zetas violently took on both the cartel and the state.

"The Gulf Cartel managed to co-exist with the state government for decades," says George W. Grayson, a Mexico expert at the College of William & Mary. "But the presence of the Zetas has thrown an electric eel in a barrel of fish."

The governor says there has never been collusion between the Tamaulipas government and drug traffickers. But like many other Tamaulipas residents, he seems nostalgic for past days when drug dealers in Mexico stuck to ferrying drugs to the U.S. and didn't kidnap, extort and kill fellow Mexicans.

"There was no agreement, but they [the Gulf Cartel] stuck to their business," he says. "They behaved differently. They didn't interfere with normal citizens. There were no extortions or kidnappings."

Some local residents blame the federal government for provoking the drug traffickers. "This is a war that was declared by the federal government," says Óscar Luebbert, the outgoing mayor of Reynosa, the state's biggest city and busiest border crossing. Mr. Luebbert objected to military deployments by President Calderón, who belongs to the rival National Action Party. "I don't want to live in a country in war."

While Ciudad Mier remains the only city to have emptied out so far, the rule of law is breaking down elsewhere. In Reynosa, a taco stand a short walk from the main plaza offers a typical encounter with criminals who have no fear of authorities. Days ago, the owners say, a group of men descended from sport-utility vehicles, AK-47 machine guns slung to their belts. "They came for lunch. They didn't pay," says an employee at the stand.
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To fend off the Zetas, the Gulf Cartel is tightening its grip on the city's institutions—particularly news outlets. Reporters interviewed said that many colleagues receive checks from the cartel for favorable coverage. One referred to a "spokesman" for a drug cartel who went to crime scenes after shootouts to dictate angles for news.

The Gulf Cartel even appears to be getting involved in quasi-legitimate activities, such as the sale of alcohol. In a cantina off one of the city's main thoroughfares, a restaurant employee showed a reporter a whiskey bottle with a three-letter stamp that he said is the mark of the Gulf Cartel, which has been selling imports. "There's no choice but to buy from them now," he said. The Zetas, meanwhile, have their own merchandise brands such as bootleg CDs in areas they control.

In Tampico, a port city that bears a passing resemblance to a faded New Orleans, the most important society dance was cancelled this year for the first time in 70 years, says a cattle rancher. Kidnappings have surged. Among the victims: two of the city's former mayors. "Most owners of businesses have left and run their companies by telephone from Texas," says a local resident.

The outgoing mayor, Oscar Pérez, is rarely seen in town. Residents believe he lives in Garland, Texas. The incoming mayor, former schoolteacher Magdalena Peraza, says she plans to mobilize the citizenry, awaken civic pride and create jobs when she takes office in December.

Ms. Peraza's sister urged her not to take the high profile job. Ms. Peraza replied that God would protect her, but her sister urged her again to reconsider, saying that God was very busy.

"I'm worried," says the mayor elect. "But I have faith."

Write to Nicholas Casey at nicholas.casey@wsj.com and José de Córdoba at jose.decordoba@wsj.com

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