In the heart of Michoacán, a region long scarred by cartel violence, the assassination of Uruapan’s mayor, Carlos Manzo, has sent shockwaves through Mexico and reignited urgent questions about the country’s struggle against organized crime. Manzo, a popular figure known for his uncompromising stance against criminal groups, was gunned down during the Day of the Dead celebration last month—a killing that not only devastated his city but also triggered widespread protests and a renewed spotlight on the dangers faced by local officials.
According to NPR, Manzo’s tenure as mayor was marked by a bold, almost defiant, approach to crime. He instructed his police force to shoot criminals without hesitation and made a point of confronting corruption wherever he found it. His grassroots activism, which began with a simple table in the town center to help citizens with everything from medicines to bureaucratic red tape, endeared him to many. As Esteban Constantino Magana, a close friend of Manzo, recalled, “Before meeting Carlos, I thought you had to be a millionaire to help others. But he taught me all you needed was the desire to help.”
But Manzo’s crusade against organized crime came at a steep price. In September, one of his police officers was assassinated at a checkpoint—a chilling warning that did little to deter the mayor. Manzo responded with a public cry for justice, not just for his fallen officer but for all victims of cartel violence. He even took the unprecedented step of publicly naming the cartels he believed were responsible, including the Jalisco New Generation Cartel and the Knights Templar. Less than two months later, as hundreds gathered for the Day of the Dead festivities, a lone gunman ended Manzo’s life as he held his baby boy in his arms.
The aftermath was immediate and intense. Protests erupted in Uruapan and soon spread to Mexico City, where thousands marched through the streets, their anger swelling as they neared the presidential palace. Chants of “End the narco state” rang out, and clashes with police underscored the depth of public outrage. As Lourdes Campos, a protester in her 60s, put it, “They’re going to regret the day they ordered Manzo’s assassination.”
For many, Manzo’s death was not just a personal tragedy but a symbol of the broader crisis gripping Michoacán and much of Mexico. The region is a battleground for rival cartels, including the Jalisco New Generation, United Cartels, and the New Michoacan Family, all vying for control over lucrative drug routes and extortion rackets. The Associated Press reports that Michoacán is also a major producer of avocados and limes—industries that have become frequent targets of cartel extortion.
The violence has escalated in recent months. On December 6, an explosion outside a police station in Coahuayana, Michoacán, killed at least three people and wounded six, according to federal and local security officials. The blast, which involved a vehicle detonated on a central avenue, claimed the lives of two local police officers and caused significant damage to nearby buildings. Hector Zepeda, commander of the Coahuayana community police, described the aftermath: “With this operation [from the federal government], a lot of marines came. We stopped doing patrols because the operation is going on.”
The use of explosives by criminal groups has surged dramatically. State security agencies have seized over 2,000 explosive devices in Michoacán so far this year, a staggering increase from just 160 in 2022. These weapons—dropped from drones, buried as mines, or planted alongside roads—reflect the evolving tactics of cartels determined to maintain their grip on the region.
As violence intensifies, so does the recruitment of minors by organized crime. State prosecutors confirmed last week that the gunman who killed Carlos Manzo was a 17-year-old boy named Victor Manuel Ubaldo. Forensic tests, including a sodium rhodizonate analysis, proved the teenager had recently fired a weapon. His relatives identified his body after he was killed by security forces responding to the attack. According to the Michoacán prosecutor’s office, Ubaldo was a frequent methamphetamine user who had left home a week before the shooting. Officials believe the assassination was orchestrated by an organized crime group and that the teenager was not acting alone.
Reuters and other outlets have documented a disturbing trend: cartels are increasingly recruiting children, sometimes as young as six, exploiting their vulnerabilities through video games and social media. Human rights advocates estimate that up to 200,000 children in Mexico are at risk of being drawn into cartel activity. These minors are often used to commit violent crimes, serving as expendable and less-suspicious operatives for the gangs. The tragic murder of Manzo by such a young assailant highlights what experts describe as a national security emergency.
In the wake of these events, federal authorities have ramped up their response. President Claudia Sheinbaum and Michoacán Governor Alfredo Ramírez Bedolla have faced mounting criticism over the deteriorating security situation. Last month, Sheinbaum ordered the deployment of 2,000 additional troops to Michoacán, supplementing the 4,300 permanent soldiers already stationed there and another 4,000 in neighboring states. Despite these efforts, the violence shows little sign of abating, and the sense of insecurity among residents remains palpable.
For the people of Uruapan, the loss of Carlos Manzo is deeply personal. At his grave, citizens gather to mourn and reflect on the lawlessness that has plagued their city for years. As Guadalupe Fernandez told NPR, “We’re worried that we’ll go back to how things used to be.” Manzo’s widow, Grecia Quiroz, has since stepped into the political arena, determined to continue her husband’s legacy. She admits to feeling fear—“the first thing I wanted to do was grab my kids and run far away from here”—but ultimately resolved to stay, feeling that “running would have felt like a betrayal.”
Manzo’s brother, Juan Daniel Manzo, now deputy secretary of the interior for Michoacán, offers a sober assessment: “A fight like this calls for big resources—firepower, intelligence. It’s not a fight that you can win alone.” The tentacles of organized crime, he warns, reach into every corner of society, from government to business.
As Michoacán grapples with the fallout from Manzo’s assassination, the ongoing violence, and the systemic recruitment of children by cartels, the region stands at a crossroads. The courage of local leaders and citizens offers hope, but the scale of the challenge is daunting. Whether the government’s latest security measures will make a lasting difference remains to be seen, but for many in Uruapan, the fight for justice and safety is far from over.
