When Ninfa Fuentes stepped into a rideshare car in Mexico City three years ago, she expected a routine trip home. Instead, a male driver’s persistent questions about her Valentine’s Day plans and his request for her phone number left her paralyzed with fear. “I felt like I was dying,” Fuentes, a 48-year-old researcher and survivor of sexual violence, later told Associated Press. That harrowing ride marked the last time she would use public transportation or ride-hailing apps, joining thousands of women across Mexico who have altered their daily routines to avoid harassment and violence.
For countless women, every journey through Mexico City and its sprawling suburbs is fraught with anxiety. The numbers are staggering: according to the National Public Security System’s Executive Secretariat, Mexico reported 61,713 sex crimes so far in 2025, including 8,704 reports of sexual harassment. Yet activists and experts agree these figures only scratch the surface. Many survivors choose silence, convinced that authorities will belittle their experiences or, worse, do nothing at all. “Seeing that the authorities downplay it, women often end up giving up on their cases,” said lawyer Norma Escobar, who works with the feminist rideshare network AmorrAs.
This climate of fear and mistrust has forced women to devise their own safety nets. One of the most prominent is AmorrAs, a self-managed network founded in 2022 by 29-year-old activist Karina Alba. Inspired by the tragic 2022 murder of Debanhi Escobar—who was found dead after leaving a taxi alone—Alba set out to create a transportation service by women, for women. “My dream was to contribute to society in some way,” Alba explained. “I decided to do so by creating a safe space for women, one where they can live with dignity and be free from violence.”
AmorrAs began with Alba’s mother, Ruth Rojas, a veteran taxi driver, as its first “ally” driver. Today, the network boasts more than 20 vetted women-only drivers serving over 2,000 women annually across Mexico City and its suburbs. Rides are scheduled in advance, prices vary by distance, and each trip starts with a WhatsApp message confirming the driver’s name, route, and arrival time. A pink heart emoji at the end of the message signals a promise of trust and safety.
For passengers like Fuentes and engineer María José Cabrera, AmorrAs is more than just a means of getting from point A to point B—it’s a lifeline. Cabrera, 28, described her own routines of self-protection: avoiding skirts, keeping her phone visible, and ensuring someone she trusts is tracking her location. She recounted being followed by a man after getting off a minibus and taking refuge in the subway car reserved for women. On another occasion, she was touched inappropriately in a mixed subway car, but the perpetrator vanished before she could react. “For me, AmorrAs represents being able to do things I couldn’t do before,” Cabrera said. “I really enjoy going to concerts. It shouldn’t be like that but if it weren’t for them, I probably wouldn’t be able to do it.”
Stories like these are all too common. Nejoi Meddeb, another regular commuter, described the habit of gripping the car door handle, ready to escape at the first sign of danger—a routine born from tragedies like the 2022 death of Lidia Gabriela Gómez. Gómez jumped from a moving taxi in Mexico City after the driver deviated from her requested route, a fate that haunts the city’s collective memory.
The need for alternatives like AmorrAs is underscored by the persistent failures of the justice system. Escobar, the lawyer who supports AmorrAs users, has witnessed forensic doctors in the gender crimes department dismissing women’s complaints with remarks like, “Nothing has happened to you, there have been worse cases.” Sometimes, the absence of a forensic doctor has even prevented women from officially filing a report. While a spokesperson for the Mexico state Attorney General’s Office told Associated Press they had no knowledge of such comments, Escobar insisted that “there is a lack of attention, commitment and professionalism from authorities.”
These systemic issues are not lost on the country’s leadership. The conversation around sexual harassment and gender-based violence surged again in November 2025 after Mexico’s first woman president, Claudia Sheinbaum, was groped by a drunk man during a public event—a moment captured on video and widely shared. Sheinbaum pressed charges and pledged to make sexual harassment a criminal offense in all Mexican states, a move intended to make it easier for women to report such assaults in a country where, on average, 10 women are killed daily. Her response was seen by many as a turning point in a nation long accustomed to impunity for gender-based crimes.
Still, legal reforms alone cannot erase decades of cultural machismo and systemic inequality. Many women, including those who use AmorrAs, remain skeptical that new laws will translate into real change without reliable enforcement. “Until enforcement becomes reliable, most women continue to rely on networks like AmorrAs—trusting one another rather than the system meant to protect them,” reported Associated Press.
The AmorrAs experience is deeply personal. Drivers like Dian Colmenero, who works in marketing when she isn’t behind the wheel, see their role as protectors and confidantes. On a recent afternoon, Colmenero greeted Fuentes with a hug before driving her home. They chatted about family, work, and health, sharing stories and support as the city’s noise faded into the background. Each safe arrival is a small victory—a testament to the resilience and solidarity of women determined to reclaim their freedom of movement.
As women across Mexico build their own systems of safety, they are not simply filling gaps left by the state—they are redefining what protection means. For Fuentes and thousands like her, safety is no longer a privilege granted by institutions. It is a right women are determined to secure together, one ride at a time.
