Yunuen

"Eight severed heads dumped in a bar." "Seventeen people die in a shootout." "The President vows to combat the violence." That's the face of Mexico you watch on TV or read in newspapers. Yet I saw a different Mexico. I saw a beautiful countryside, vibrant historic towns, and gentle people that greeted me with a smile, easy conversation, and often, an invitation to join in the fun and food of their fiesta. I believed that the violence is restricted to drug gangs, and does not affect regular people. That was last week.

In Patzcuaro, my temporary residence, no one locks their front door, nor talks about crime. In the Plaza, colorfully dressed indigenous villagers mingle with town folk, peacefully enjoying the evening. The Federales (Federal Police), patrolling the town holding M16 rifles at the ready, seem so out of place, that I attributed it to an overzealous reaction of bureaucrats in the Capital. That was last week. That was before I found out about Yunuen.

Yunuen is a pretty, if diminutive, woman in her late thirties. Three times a week we occupy adjacent mats in a Pilates class, where we exchange furtive smiles of common suffering. At the end of each class she raises herself on her toes, extends her arms as far as she can reach, and gives me a long warm hug and a smiling Buenos Dias. It is a perfect start to my day. One evening, while strolling in town, I met Yunuen walking with a young man and a boy. She introduced me to her brother Miguel and to her son Sebastian. Miguel had a nice smile, but seemed too shy to speak much. Neither did the boy. Yunuen pointed to her pastry shop, and I promised to visit during working hours. That was last week. This Thursday, Yunuen did not come to class.

Tania, our instructor, took me aside and told me that Yunuen did not show up because her brother was killed. My heart stopped. Yesterday's extraordinary events raced through my mind. First, the morning quiet was interrupted by the incongruous sound of helicopter blades. The helicopter circled over the town center for a long time, obviously searching for something. Driving out of town, my car was stopped at a police road block. The cops told me that the Chief of Police was shot. Probably a corrupt cop, I thought, and went on with my day. Now, Tania confirmed my fears. Yunuen's brother was Patzcuaro's Chief of Police. I did not know how to reconcile my cynicism of yesterday, with the deep sympathy I felt now. Tania and I walked to town to visit my classmate.

A church stands at the corner where last week I met Yunuen and Miguel. The family was inside, participating in the mourning ritual. These rituals will be conducted for the next nine days. Outside, a group of men were engaged in a hot discussion. I moved closer, expecting to hear details of the crime, or maybe plans for neighborhood vigilance. I was wrong. They were discussing the new water pipes being laid in the street.

We entered the church. When the ceremony ended, I approached Yunuen's mother. She stood almost motionless. Her eyes were red, but depleted of tears. This is not her first casualty. Her husband, Yunuen's father, was a drug enforcement agent. A few years ago he was shot to death. She did not speak. In her trembling hands she held a photograph of Miguel, in camouflage uniform, a rifle across his chest, in the company of his police comrades. They were all smiling. My voice disappeared somewhere inside my throat. Without words I shook her hand, and then held her arm until, at last, I could whisper my sorrow. Yunuen was outside the church holding her son's hand. When she saw me she rose on her toes, extended her arms as far as she could reach, and we hugged. We held each other for a long time, Yunuen sobbing softly, and me trying not to do the same. When we finally let go, she took Sebastian in her arms, and introduced me to Ruben, her husband.

I asked Ruben about the events surrounding the shootings, but it was difficult to make myself understood. My Spanish does not contain the appropriate vocabulary, but I persisted. Finally, Ruben took me aside and explained, in perfect English, that Miguel arrested a gang member, the gang demanded his release, and when Miguel refused, he was shot. The shooters were not caught. Everyone is afraid to do anything. That was all he said. Tania later explained that I made an error asking such questions, "Walls have ears". We said our Goodbyes.

This week I understand the headlines and the M16 rifles. I understand that the violent side of Mexico affects everyone. It's just not talked about.