On the evening of November 2, 2025, a chilling act of violence shattered the Day of the Dead celebrations in Uruapan, a city nestled in the heart of Michoacán, Mexico. Carlos Manzo, the city’s 40-year-old mayor and a figure who had become a symbol of resistance against cartel violence, was assassinated in front of a stunned crowd. The brazen killing—carried out by a hooded gunman who shot Manzo seven times just after the mayor handed off his young son—sent shockwaves through the nation and reignited fierce debate over Mexico’s strategy to tackle organized crime.
Manzo’s murder was not only a personal tragedy but a national flashpoint. According to AP, Manzo had gained national notoriety for his unyielding stance against cartels, going so far as to publicly demand that authorities “summarily kill the armed cartel members who terrorize the country.” His militant rhetoric and willingness to confront criminal groups head-on made him a hero to many in Uruapan, where he secured 65% of the vote in the last election. Yet, his approach also made him a marked man. In June, as reported by The New York Times, Manzo had received a death threat targeting his toddler son—a threat he met with characteristic defiance: “I responded as any father would. I told them, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’”
That sense of defiance defined Manzo’s tenure. He was rarely seen without his bulletproof vest and trademark cowboy hat, often joining police raids in person. The federal government, recognizing the dangers he faced, assigned military personnel to protect him. By December 2024, Manzo was under constant guard, and in May 2025, his security detail was reinforced with municipal police and 14 National Guard troops. Despite these measures, violence in Michoacán—a state long plagued by turf wars between groups like the Jalisco New Generation Cartel and La Familia Michoacana—remained a daily reality.
Manzo’s assassination was as public as it was brutal. The gunman who killed him was shot dead at the scene, but the damage was done. The attack, as AP and BBC noted, was a stark warning to President Claudia Sheinbaum and her administration, raising urgent questions about the effectiveness of Mexico’s security policies and the risks faced by those who challenge the status quo.
In the aftermath, grief quickly turned to outrage. Thousands of mourners filled Uruapan’s streets for Manzo’s funeral procession, where his black horse and iconic hat trailed behind the casket—a poignant symbol of the void his death had left. Protests erupted across Michoacán, with demonstrators storming the government palace in Morelia, setting fires, and demanding accountability from authorities. Michoacán Governor Alfredo Ramírez, a political ally of President Sheinbaum, was met with jeers and even physical assault at the funeral, underscoring the depth of public anger and frustration.
President Sheinbaum, who had campaigned on a promise to break the cycle of violence, was immediately thrust into the spotlight. Critics from across the political spectrum seized on Manzo’s death to argue that her administration’s approach—focused on intelligence operations, social investment, and avoiding militarized crackdowns—had emboldened cartels rather than curbed their power. Sheinbaum, however, stood firm. In a press conference covered by AP, she insisted, “Some are calling for militarization and war, as happened with the war on drugs. That didn’t work and was what brought us to this situation.” She reaffirmed her commitment to intelligence-led policing and tackling the social roots of crime, promising to strengthen the National Guard and ensure that “there will be no impunity” for Manzo’s killers.
Yet, the president’s stance did little to quell the growing sense of insecurity. Manzo himself had been an outspoken critic of both state and federal authorities, publicly accusing Governor Ramírez and the Michoacán police of corruption and failing to stop the cartels. In recent months, he had taken to social media to appeal directly to President Sheinbaum for help. His murder, then, was not just an attack on a local official but a direct challenge to national authority and the promise of reform.
Internationally, Manzo’s assassination intensified scrutiny of Mexico’s security crisis. The U.S. government, alarmed by the prospect of cartel violence spilling across the border, renewed calls for deeper cooperation. According to Reuters and NBC News, some American officials even floated the idea of covert military operations against Mexican cartels—proposals that included limited ground missions and drone strikes. President Sheinbaum swiftly rejected any suggestion of U.S. intervention, stating, “Mexico is a free and sovereign country. We accept help in information, in intelligence, but not intervention.” She was adamant: “Mexico coordinates and collaborates, but does not subordinate itself.”
This stance resonated with many Mexicans, wary of repeating the mistakes of past militarized approaches and fiercely protective of national sovereignty. Still, the dilemma remained: how to confront powerful transnational criminal organizations without sacrificing autonomy or escalating violence?
Analysts warned that the public outrage following Manzo’s murder could spark a resurgence of vigilante groups—self-defense forces that had previously taken up arms against the cartels in Michoacán. These groups, born out of desperation, have a checkered history: while sometimes successful in confronting extortion and kidnapping, they have also contributed to cycles of violence and lawlessness. The recent killing of Bernardo Bravo, a lime-growers’ association president, during protests against cartel extortion fueled fears that the region could spiral further into chaos.
President Sheinbaum’s challenge is, in many ways, existential. She must restore public trust in the state’s ability to provide security without resorting to the heavy-handed tactics of the past. At the same time, she faces mounting pressure from both domestic critics and international partners to deliver swift and tangible results. As AP reported, Sheinbaum accused her adversaries of “acting like vultures and scavengers” in the wake of Manzo’s death, but the political and social costs of inaction are mounting by the day.
For now, Mexico stands at a crossroads. The funeral of Carlos Manzo—a procession marked by grief, anger, and defiance—was more than a farewell to a fallen mayor. It was a stark reminder of the stakes in the country’s ongoing battle with organized crime and the deep divisions over how best to confront it. Whether Sheinbaum’s strategy of intelligence-led policing and social reform can succeed where force has failed remains an open question, one that will shape the nation’s future for years to come.
As the dust settles in Uruapan and across Michoacán, the legacy of Carlos Manzo endures—a testament to the courage and peril of standing up to criminal power, and a challenge to Mexico’s leaders to find a path forward that honors both justice and sovereignty.
