The Cartels Killed My Cousin

Photo taken outside of my cousin’s funeral service. February 2025.

I was on the UCLA campus in front of Royce Hall, watching Palestinian and Israeli protesters, when I found out my detective cousin, in Mexico, had been assassinated. The text from my mom said “Mataron a Ivan.” She didn’t have to explain who did it; I knew. With his line of work in the hotbed of cartel violence that is Sinaloa, the family knew it was a matter of time before tragedy struck, but Ivan was willing to face the danger that would come from following our grandfathers’ footsteps to catch bad guys. I still remember the day he told me about starting at the local academy. It was sunny, and we were on a dirt road on our way to an aunt’s house. The camion was taking forever, so we walked and talked about our grandfather’s legacy and our future.

Ivan followed our grandfather all the way to the grave. Even their assassinations were similar, stalked for weeks, then ambushed by multiple shooters. Their bodies riddled by bullets from semiautomatic weapons, likely from the US. In both cases, family members witnessed their death, extending the suffering. Ivan’s death reopened old wounds even for those who were not present. My mom revisited memories of her father’s bloody body being transported in the back of a pickup truck through their dusty rural town. My tia Betty, Ivan’s mother, sank into depression, but at the same time was very proud of her son for his bravery and service. No one ever found out how many men fired at my grandfather, but everyone knew it was men from organized crime seeking revenge for having apprehended one of their leaders, a savage murderer. In Ivan’s case, all we know is that it was a group of armed men in a white sedan who unloaded on my cousin as he carried groceries to his truck while his wife and baby watched.

My family continues to tell my mother, who fled Mexico after her father’s assassination, about the cartel violence they deal with regularly. Last week, another cousin of mine witnessed a rape and robbery. He is now in hiding as the perpetrators have threatened the life of my entire family if he speaks. Another cousin had to shut down her accounting office because the cartel was threatening to kill her and her daughter if she did not give them a cut of her earnings.

We are only one of many families who can’t escape the violence, but no one cares unless it’s news about the national soccer team. Some Mexican nationalists are quick to dismiss the 132,000 people who have been reported missing as of April 2026, the femicides, and the countless pits filled with body parts. Ivan told me about the pits and the Sisyphean task of assembling bodies from decomposing parts.

I’ve always felt invisible, but getting the devastating news that day on the bustling quad with its imposing buildings made me feel more invisible than ever. I wanted to run up to the protesters on both sides and scream, but I just cried, my blood boiling. Where were the campus protesters against Trump’s criminalization of immigrants fleeing the sort of violence my family faces? Because of Trumpers, one of my little cousins cannot cross the border for a surgery he needs, which St. Jude Medical has offered to do for free. His permission to cross was denied, even though the previous administration had allowed him entry for a different surgery. No one cares unless the cause is trending. Perhaps it makes me selfish to expect fellow academics to care about Mexico.

That afternoon, I sat on the grassy slope next to Janss Steps and watched the sun sink, and with it, hope for my family to live in peace. When I got home, I wrote this:

February 2025

Deus Ex Machina

Greed, drugs, and American guns

kill my family. People who live to love

and die in poverty. Penniless, but free

from lies of the American scheme.

No flags for them on campuses.

They go unseen.

Their ghostly groans muffled

By impossible academics ruffled.

God’s most savage ranger,

Ban narcos to a fiery torture chamber.

Let screams reverb on

Blood-stained walls.

Blood their own.

Blood of my ancestors,

Come to life and haunt

These trumpers day and night,

And in every dream,

Starting tonight.