Honduras-Comalapa Border: The trafficking route
The Chiapas municipality that made headlines as a dispute territory for organized crime has been a trafficking center for years where Honduran women are sexually exploited and give birth to children without nationality.
This is the story of an illicit business that operates with impunity, of its victims, of the midwives who care for them and also of women who managed to escape from their captors.
On a street in Frontera Comalapa, in Chiapas, on the border between Mexico and Guatemala, is the birth house, where Ana and Rosa, two Honduran sisters, wait to see their friend Daniela, who has just given birth to her baby.
“We want to leave now,” Rosa says, overwhelmed. Ana agrees. They arrived about four hours ago and the heat and humidity are already weighing them down.
The time they can spend outside their home is limited. They look towards the entrance constantly, in a state of alert. That day in November 2021 they are there to accompany Daniela, but now their minutes are running out because their lives are under the control of someone else, a man they describe as powerful and violent.
Ana, 21 years old, calls him “my Mexican.” Rosa, four years older, tenses and takes a deep breath when she hears it. Neither of them mentions her name. He is a member of a criminal group and also has a relationship with Ana. He is the father of her daughter.
Both women from the region and neighboring Guatemala and, for more than fifteen years, victims of trafficking of Honduran origin come to this birthing house. It is a simple block and cement construction with a waiting room and another for giving birth. The toilet and sink are outside, in a cool garden larger than the house.
The three young women are forced to work in bars and cantinas in Frontera Comalapa – the name of the municipality and its main population – where organized crime has built a lucrative business trafficking Honduran women for sexual exploitation.
Human trafficking means “the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harboring or receipt of persons, using the threat or use of force or other forms of coercion, kidnapping, fraud, deception, abuse of power or a situation of vulnerability, or the granting or receipt of payments or benefits to obtain the consent of a person who has authority over another, for the purposes of exploitation”, in accordance with the Palermo Protocol , adopted by the UN in 2000. It can include sexual exploitation, forced labor or services, slavery, servitude, and organ removal.
Frontera Comalapa made headlines on September 23, when armed men identified as members of the Sinaloa Cartel paraded with artillery vehicles among a crowd celebrating their victory over the rival group, the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG). Both organizations fight for control of drug, weapons and migrant trafficking on the border.
The Sinaloa Cartel has a presence in the area dating back to the late 1980s. But it was in 2018, an election year, when violence between criminal groups intensified, according to a report by Avispa Midia . The arrival of the Morena party coincided with the incursion of the CJNG.
To carry out this report, in which most of the names are fictitious for security reasons, victims of trafficking in Frontera Comalapa, witnesses to the crime, members of organizations that document these events, and local midwives, a total of sixteen sources; Tours were also made along the migratory route from 2017 to 2022, and through the Chiapas municipality between 2019 and 2022.
’With us or against us’
For years, Josefina helped women victims of trafficking in Frontera Comalapa. Until 2018, when Honduran women began to arrive "at the drop of a hat", after being forced to flee the "cuarterías" - neighborhoods, small hotels or steam-made constructions, with numerous small rooms to rent - in which they lived, because the criminal order had changed. The fight between the Sinaloa Cartel and the CJNG began.
In 2022 he decided to leave the place; He knew that an upsurge in violence between the cartels that were fighting for control of the territory was imminent.
In May 2023, this struggle caused the displacement of more than 3,000 people , who left their communities to escape the violence. The population of Frontera Comalapa had two options, according to published testimonies: flee or obey the orders of the CJNG through Maíz, the acronym for the Left Hand group , considered the social base of the cartel.
Two years earlier, in August 2021, the main access roads to Frontera Comalapa – the entrance from San Gregorio Chamic and the exit towards Motozintla – had been closed by members of the Jalisco cartel. “The drug groups that had control grabbed all the organizations, both civil and peasant, merchants and others. They took hold and said: ’Let’s see, gang, you are with us or against us,’” a local resident then explained to me.
A large number of organizations dissolved to join the Maíz. Public transport buses and shops have their logo. If an incident occurs, the criminals ask their members to block the roads, not to allow passage.
The violence has not stopped. In the first days of January 2024, clashes , power outages and road blockades were again recorded in different communities in Frontera Comalapa and nearby municipalities such as Chicomuselo and Motozintla. Reforma published that, according to the residents, neither the Army nor the National Guard managed to enter the conflict areas.
Frontera Comalapa is a silenced area. It took several years to get the details of how traffickers operate. At each step of the process we had to attend to security recommendations, avoid evasion, sources who agreed to speak and later regretted it, conditions of anonymity and warnings.
They are the stories of Josefina, who for years secretly protected the victims of crime, and the nun Lidia Mara Silva de Souza, who in Honduras witnessed the violence of traffickers; of Honduran women like Ana, Rosa and Cony, who try to escape or resign themselves to the fate that brought them to Frontera Comalapa, and of the midwives who worry about their health, so that they can give birth to strong babies, who allow us to tell the journey of trafficking, its starting point and its end, sometimes luminous, when they manage to leave their captors behind.
Human trafficking is part of an illicit business that, according to the UN, generates profits of up to $36 billion a year worldwide .
Migrant limb
Rosa and Ana arrived in Frontera Comalapa in 2018. Three years later, they live in a barracks and work in a central bar in the town. It is a prison without bars. Their steps are monitored by the criminal organization that paid to bring them, headed in the municipality, as they say, by “the Mexican.”
“I have my Mexican who mistreats me. "He notices everything I do, that’s why I don’t go out anymore," says Ana in the birthing house, which smells clean and has a patio dotted with pebbles that were once in a river that runs and can be heard very close.
Before its founding, in 1928, the town was called Cushu, which in the Mam language means “roasted corn.” Other versions collected by anthropologist Enriqueta Lerma Rodríguez affirm that Cushu is derived from cusha, the alcohol produced by the “drink factories.” In her book The Other Believers she includes a testimony that she attributes the name of Frontera Comalapa to the desire to mark the territorial limit with the Guatemalans, who would have always lived in the place.
It was in the second half of the 90s, writes researcher Nicanor Madueño Haon, when the “first migratory wave” of Hondurans arrived in Frontera Comalapa, which coincided with the increase in the militarization of the state after the emergence of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. The growth in the number of canteens in those years, run by foreign women, is related to “the phenomenon” of human trafficking in the region, he points out.
In 2012, the Government of Chiapas reported that in five years it had managed to dismantle 33 gangs dedicated to human trafficking. Between 2015 and September 2022, the state prosecutor’s office initiated 36 investigation files for this crime, he specified via transparency. He did not have specific information on the number of Honduran victims.
The Diagnosis on the situation of human trafficking in Mexico 2021 , prepared by the National Human Rights Commission (CNDH) also with information from the state prosecutor’s office, records an increase in the figures: between August 2017 and July 2021 They opened 62 investigation files for human trafficking in Chiapas, and 40 criminal cases were initiated at the local level, none at the federal level. 84 victims were also reported. There were five convictions and two acquittals, and eight people imprisoned in the state for that crime.
At the national level, according to the report, 3,896 victims of trafficking were identified in the same period, of which 2,934 were women. 93 percent of those whose identity could be established were Mexican. The majority of foreign victims were Colombian (41), Honduran (40) and Venezuelan (38).
Two officials from the International Organization for Migration (IOM) who investigate crime in Central America assure that between fifteen and seventeen people participate in the trafficking chain between Honduras and the Comalapa Border, from when the women are hooked until they are sexually exploited. , including public officials. “There is the one who captures, the one who transports, the one who hosts in the transfers, the one who houses [at the destination], the one who cooks for them,” explains one in an interview.
Those who operate the business work with people who manage to enter the victims’ inner circle. The first contact is a family member or friend who is responsible for convincing them to move to the municipality with the promise of a well-paid job.
Between the two ends of the chain there are men and women who travel with them. It is common to see how traffickers show several passports, accompanied by their victims, at the windows of immigration controls in Guatemala, without the agents asking them questions or trying to stop them. There are also people hired to receive them in that country. And the managers of hotels where no one tells the authorities what is happening inside.
Once in Mexico, after crossing through official or unauthorized border crossings, more officials and public servants intervene – immigration agents, police, prosecutors – who see them and do not act. The victims remain under the control of criminals and members of criminal groups.
That is why there is a constant traffic of Honduran victims of trafficking, women who, when they become pregnant, go to birth centers in Chiapas to give birth to their babies, without being able to process their nationality because the Civil Registry does not recognize the birth certificates. birth that midwives extend, according to the testimony of the midwives themselves.
For these certificates to be valid, midwives must be registered in an institution in the health sector; If they are not, the birth must be recorded in a health unit. In the latter case, the midwives limit themselves to delivering a delivery document, with no official value.
Ready to escape
Rosa is the one who talks the least. She lulls herself in a rocking chair; She says that she already wants to leave, but doesn’t feel like stopping. She without desire for anything, with a sadness of years. She wears shorts and a cotton blouse. Today she rests from the obligation to wear a dress and put on makeup.
Ana is sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, with her back straight and her hands on her knees, as if ready to take off at any moment. She is wearing an orange strapless dress. She pays attention to the voices coming from the street and the sounds of cars and motorcycles.
The meeting with the Honduran sisters is an opportunity to learn about the business of trafficking. An intermediary, a friend of hers, set the date, time and place of the interview with Rosa. What was not planned is that her friend Daniela gave birth that day.
Rosa and Ana’s cuartería is in the center of the municipal seat, a few blocks from the central park, in an area full of street merchants, collective taxis and vans. In their other rooms live more Honduran girls forced to work for traffickers.
On any given day in the hot and hectic Frontera Comalapa you see young women on their way to the bars. Their phenotype gives them away; Although they try to go unnoticed, they stand out among the women of the region. They tend to be taller, with a Caribbean accent.
“These catrachas are whores, they always tell us on the street, anyway,” says Rosa.
Some walk from their rooms to a nearby bar, where they dedicate themselves to “checking in”: the more alcohol they get clients to consume, the higher their commission. Others take taxis to travel to canteens in rural communities.
Sometimes, the young women do not return because they run away, disappear, or because they are killed and their bodies are abandoned somewhere. Many end up in the common grave of the municipal pantheon, according to Josefina, the woman who protects victims of trafficking. “Here they kill women all the time and bury them wherever,” says Rosa.
With the sunset the heat drops a little. Ana talks about her anger, that she does not accept living in shackles by her “partner”, the head of the criminal group – she did not want to say which one – that brought her to this place. She no longer wants to live like this, without freedom. “They say there is work in Tijuana. I have contacts in the United States,” she repeats as if it were a mantra.
He has decided: he plans to flee the next day to Tijuana; He already bought tickets for her and her two children.
But it is not easy to escape from Frontera Comalapa.
The bosses
One spring night in 2021, three Honduran men and a woman took a bus with the task of bringing some young women from their country to put them to work in bars in Frontera Comalapa.
In the same vehicle that left La Mesilla, in Guatemala, less than 20 kilometers from the Chiapas municipality, behind the group of traffickers was a person who carries out field work for the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS, for its acronym in English). , the first international humanitarian organization that was established in Frontera Comalapa to serve the migrant population forced to stay in the place.
On public transportation in the area, it is common to hear radio advertisements from evangelical pastors and healers who sell “miracles,” coyotes who offer to take people to the United States, and moneylenders who provide money to pay the coyote. The radio spectrum is full of promises related to migration… and human trafficking.
That day, the criminals sent audios to their contact in Honduras, and played their responses on loudspeaker. Their interlocutor was the first link in the trafficking chain, generally a relative or close friend of the young women they planned to pick up the next day.
“They told them where they were going to wait for them, because only the truck arrived in Honduras and they returned [at the next exit]. From there they told them not to worry, that [the girls] were ready,” says the JRS employee.
On the bus, the traffickers responded that the girls – they did not specify how many there were – were going to “return safely.” When they stopped exchanging audios, they began to talk. “They said that a bar owner, a boss, had promised them money for these people.”
There are many bosses in Frontera Comalapa. They are essential for the business because they are in charge of receiving the young women, hosting them during the first days and telling them, when the time comes, that they fell into a trap. The bath of reality is in dribs and drabs, because a boss makes sure that the victims do not escape. They master the art of subtle threats and blackmail; They are the ones who do the makeup and deliver them to the owners of the bars, although sometimes they can also be the owners.
The witness’s account of the conversation between the criminals continues: “They talked about how they are paid very well. They were happy and happy. We went at night. “Someone told them ’shhhh’ because they were talking out loud.”
The bus was stopped several times on its way through Guatemala by police who got on, recognized the traffickers and charged them to let them continue the trip. It wasn’t a problem, they were prepared. “They already knew that situation and brought enough money to pay,” said the source, who has been traveling those routes for five years.
When they arrived in the capital of Guatemala, the criminals took another bus to Honduras and the witness lost them. He doesn’t know what happened to those girls they were going to look for.
The promise
In Victoria, a municipality in the department of Yoro, in northern Honduras, there was a young man named José who knew Ana and Rosa. He lived on the same block as him, he was a friend that “we already had time to know.” In 2018 he told them about a very nice place in Mexico, with “good jobs in restaurants.”
“Secure work” was for them an irrefutable proposal. Thus, José convinced them and took them. It was a two day trip. They left Victoria for the Greater Metropolitan Central of San Pedro Sula, where they took a bus north, passing near Ocotepeque, a coffee-growing town that is a usual rest stop for traffickers and polleros.
After crossing the border of Agua Caliente, a mountain town that marks the border of Honduras, they headed to Esquipulas, in Guatemala, where they did not stop to visit the venerated Black Christ, a ritual performed by millions of Central American migrants.
In the line that forms in the basilica in front of the 16th century image there are both adults and solitary children, families, and groups of people who are taken by the coyotes to say a prayer before beginning the most difficult part of the path. .
They continued on until Guatemala City. Ana and Rosa talk about hotels near Zone 1. No authority comes there to ask questions; They are accommodation and, at the same time, safe houses.
At this point, the women were stripped of their passports and IDs. The trafficker asked for them, supposedly to carry out paperwork, and he did not return them. During their first night in Guatemala, staying in a small, dirty and uncomfortable hotel, the sisters sensed that something was wrong. But they were already trapped. They were outside their country and without documents. They were on a train that they couldn’t jump off.
They then traveled more than 300 kilometers until they reached the border crossing that separates La Mesilla, in Guatemala, from Ciudad Cuauhtémoc, in Mexico. Backpackers abound in the Guatemalan town; They come from San Cristóbal de las Casas, in Chiapas, to travel to tourist destinations in the Central American country such as Lake Atitlán, or the cities of Panajachel and La Antigua.
In La Mesilla there are commercial premises with rusty metal structures about to fall, people offering to exchange quetzales for pesos and vice versa, wholesale sales of basic foods such as beans, rice, milk, and cleaning and hygiene products, in a large informal market.
It is easy to recognize tourists; They observe, as if they were on a safari, a precarious world that is foreign to them.
Cross without a trace
The victims of trafficking who travel to Frontera Comalapa, on the other hand, are not easy to distinguish. They are led by elusive criminals.
There is a grocery store in La Mesilla where people enter and never return. They cross the counter, walk through the interior of the house and come out onto a dirt road that leads to the Pan-American Highway, now on the Mexican side. This is what one of the victims tells it. The chips and sodas are just part of the facade.
Rosa and Ana crossed the border and arrived in Ciudad Cuauhtémoc with only what they were wearing, “without anything.” There José, the friend from the block, left them in the hands of an unknown woman, a boss. For them, he will always be the traitor who caused them to fall into the "Mexican’s" network.
“I didn’t imagine that’s why I came to work,” says Ana.
The sisters entered the national territory without going through immigration controls, without leaving an administrative record. As if they didn’t exist. They met the agents of the National Migration Institute (INM), the prosecutors and the police later, because some of them “touched their buttocks” in the bar where they worked, of which they were clients.
The boss took them north; They traveled by car along the Pan-American Highway, as if they were going to San Cristóbal de las Casas, the Lagunas de Montebello or the Lagos de Colón. But no: after traveling 6.4 kilometers they turned left, near the community of Paso Hondo. At that moment Mexico swallowed them.
They headed to Frontera Comalapa along a road parallel to the border line. Guatemala was on the other side, beyond a chain of mountains that look like a succession of pyramids swallowed by vegetation.
On the 24 kilometer route from Ciudad Cuauhtémoc to Frontera Comalapa they crossed San Gregorio Chamic, a community with less than 200 inhabitants that is part of the municipality. From there it is possible to cross into Guatemala through clandestine routes, between corn fields.
The homes are few and separated by enormous distances. They are places where there are birthing houses. And bars. Josefina’s refuge was also there.
In the town of Chamic, as it is known, and in the rancherías, Honduran women live confined in small rooms, with their lives mortgaged, working in miserable businesses in which they are forced to sexually serve the criminals who dispute the control of “ the plaza”, according to the testimony of Josefina and residents of the area.
Before the drug trafficker parades that made Frontera Comalapa famous in the country and in the world, there were already seasons in which violence forced the suspension, starting at five in the afternoon, of public transportation on the highway that crosses the community.
The municipality of Frontera Comalapa, with intense commercial activity, with its 222 locations distributed over an area of 717 square kilometers, is mostly rural. The main town, with around 20 thousand inhabitants, is small, a vehicle takes less than ten minutes to travel through it; Then follows a three and a half hour trip through mountainous landscapes and countless curves until you reach Tapachula, the main border city of the region.
“[Frontera Comalapa] is like a cornerstone of this direction. Many municipalities have Comalapa as the main border. There are a lot of unofficial crossings, it is a super permeable border,” explains Sergio Torres, a teacher from the area.
The strength of the quetzal – 1 quetzal is equivalent to 2.20 Mexican pesos, according to the February 2024 parity – makes Guatemalans from La Mesilla and its surrounding towns travel to Frontera Comalapa to do their shopping. “For example, at Christmas, people from Guatemala come and empty the Coppel, the Aurrerá and all those big stores. That is why Comalapa has been growing so much,” says the professor.
After crossing Chamic, Rosa and Ana arrived at Frontera Comalapa. The sisters prefer not to tell what their first months were like. Rosa focuses on the present; She talks about the heat, that she must leave now, but still doesn’t want to leave.
’The dead woman is from a bar’
Ofelia is a midwife. She lives in a ranch in Chamic. She treats Mexican and Guatemalan women, but her main patients are Hondurans who “come to the last pains to be treated”, in the final months of pregnancy, accompanied by the manager of a bar.
She is young, very active. She moves through the rancherías of that area of Frontera Comalapa; She rubs bellies, arranges babies, listens to her heart with a stethoscope, receives them at birth.
“Right now there are three [Honduran women] in the house,” he says one day in December 2021. “I don’t know if they will get relief because then the lady [the boss] takes them away.”
Many times, since she does not know the girls’ names, Ofelia records her babies in a notebook with a foot print marked on the paper.
In Chamic, Josefina remembers that in 2005 the first victims of trafficking began to arrive at her business, asking for food. Food, no matter how simple, filled their stomachs and served to open their hearts. From plates of soup they moved on to talks, then to confidences.
They told her that they are forced to do “aberrant things” in bars and at parties by “heavy people” who control the business, Josefina says one hot morning in 2022 in a vacant lot, sitting next to an unpainted wooden table, under a mango tree.
“Honduras, just like here, is very religious. Most of the young women come from a Christian background. When you have a person who has lived under fear and guilt, it is the best way to control them. Commonly, when they start living that life they no longer want to return to their country. They don’t feel worthy. It is awful".
For years, the young women have opened their world to Josefina, who has given them massages, affection and care. She was able to help them without it being known; she had the ability to be nobody in the region. If she had been discovered, she wouldn’t tell.
A few meters from where we are talking are the little rooms in which she exercises her healing skills. She herself helped build that shelter where children have been born and women who try to escape from Frontera Comalapa have slept.
“In the beginning there was a lot of abortion,” he says. “They were forced to abort even in an unsafe way. That type of work is very risky, but the owners [the bosses] of the houses gave them a lot of pills. “They came here in terrible pain.”
Josefina attended to them. The only limit to it were cases in which women could not expel the placenta. If that happened, they had to come out of hiding and enter a hospital in the region.
He says that in bars there are often conflicts between young women; There are those who “get into everything”, and others who resist. “If you judge them, you don’t understand. These practices [abortion] distance them from themselves until they forget their origin. In the spaces that we have given them they can recover. We provide them with antibiotics, medical check-ups, and emotional support. After an abortion, she is no longer the same woman. She changes everything.”
The owners of the drugs are usually also the owners of the bars where the women work, he says. “Sometimes these kids fall in love and it’s terrible. They are controlling and abuse their economic power; then they say ’I don’t want you to work here anymore’, and [they] say ’that’s fine’; They always dream of someone rescuing them and having a home. They take them, but they don’t trust them.”
It is an uncontrolled border, says Josefina, where people are used to encountering dead bodies. “Bodies of women appear in [the community of El] Pacayal, [in the neighboring municipality of Amatenango de la Frontera]; They kill them [there] and they appear here, and vice versa.”
The insecurity crisis in the region intensified in July 2021, when the CJNG claimed responsibility for the homicide in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital, of the Chiapas operator of the Sinaloa Cartel, Gilberto Rivera Maravilla, the Junior .
“Frontera Comalapa became a strategic center for drug trafficking,” says Professor Torres. The border crossings are the main loot, he points out. But the fight between criminal groups for control of illicit businesses has also reached the bars, adds Josefina.
“They are hunting the owners. They take them out and they don’t come back again.” These businesses are also a loot, because the women generate a double benefit for the criminals: they earn money by prostituting them, and they also require them to fulfill their sexual whims.
The State Attorney General’s Office (FGE) reported on sixteen cases of Honduran women victims of intentional homicide and feminicide in Chiapas in the period from 2009 to 2022. These are crimes whose investigation is based in ten municipalities, among which Frontera Comalapa does not appear. Of these cases, in nine there was a connection to proceedings and in only one a sentence was issued. The Attorney General’s Office claimed to have no information on murders of Honduran women in Mexico in the same period.
In the area there is a lapidary phrase that is frequently heard: “The dead woman is from the bar.” It’s just when crimes are not investigated. “There is never anyone looking for them,” Josefina laments.
Ana, broken
Rosa is resigned. She learned to survive in Frontera Comalapa. When she asks why she doesn’t leave, she responds with a gesture of reluctance, a sweep of her sleeves toward the horizon. She doubts everything; also that Ana can escape to Tijuana, but if she stays she will not be able to protect her from the “Mexican”, a violent man who has even beaten her sister in the middle of the street.
Ana says that “the Mexican” is a guy who “belongs to the group.” She talks about episodes in which he “goes off to do those jobs” and comes back. What she knows is enough for her to risk leaving him rather than stay.
On one occasion, when she was spending a few days with her sister, Ana went out to buy groceries. In the market she felt threatened and she had an episode of memory loss. She returned without the bags of food. “He forgot them and realized when I arrived,” says Rosa. They came back and there they were, in some hallway.
Ana has lived in a state of shock . “Broken,” as Josefina says. Until the morning when she announced to Rosa: “I already bought the tickets. “They told me they are taking us directly to Tijuana.”
Butterfly Girl
Cony is another victim. A survivor. She no longer works in bars nor plans to escape from Frontera Comalapa. Her testimony fills the gaps left by Ana and Rosa’s brief stories. While she tells details about the business, her children approach her to make love to her; We are in the large patio of her house, one day in December 2021.
She says that she was handed over by her boyfriend, a “friend” named Manuel, in her neighborhood of El Edén in Choluteca – a city in southern Honduras – to a boss nicknamed the Butterfly Girl; It was January 6, 2009. “Are you the one who is going to leave? Wait for me, I have to go get three more girls,” he told Cony when he met her. “I’ll be back after you, in about three or four days.”
Butterfly Girl left on her Vespa motorcycle towards the center of the city, Manuel disappeared, and Cony waited until the woman returned with the three girls.
His story of the trip is identical to that of Ana and Rosa: the Congolón company bus bound for Guatemala, a hotel in the center of the capital, the arrival in La Mesilla, a dirt road along which they cross into Mexico, the Pan-American Highway, Chamic, Comalapa Border.
They were going to work at the El Herradero bar. There was tension in the atmosphere because the owners were expecting eight young people and only four arrived.
On January 8th they played at Butterfly Girl’s house. The young women slept on the floor. They all woke up. They were the bosses: “We came to see how the merchandise is.” The owners of El Herradero were drunk.
“Right now they are tired, come back tomorrow,” the boss responded. “Please show them,” she ordered. The four women got up from their mats and went out into the street. “They saw us, but she quickly took us into the house,” recalls Cony.
On their second day in Frontera Comalapa they were forced to wash Butterfly Girl’s clothes, which “were a lot,” while she watched them, lying on a couch. “He said that if we were hungry we had to earn a plate of food.”
Cony remembers her wandering around the house with a large tattoo on her back: a brightly colored butterfly. The boss was in charge of keeping them captive, convinced that they could not leave. She minimized expenses; They had invested 4 thousand pesos in each one for their transfer and it was a debt that she had to collect from them. They would not be able to have money before paying it off. She just gave them free soap and shampoo before taking them to the bar.
That night the transformation began: “Get in the bathroom and get ready.” Cony’s curls disappeared; She went to work with straightened hair, false eyelashes and heavy makeup. The bow that she always wore when she lived in Honduras was left behind.
They went down towards the central park, crossed it and quickly arrived at the bar. “When I sat down at the table I saw all the girls. Pretty, pretty. All countrymen. Hondurans. There was one from Santa Barbara, Xiomara. Well beautiful".
Xiomara handed him a napkin with service instructions. “Don’t leave me, I’ll take care of you,” said the young woman. One of the owners ordered Cony with a snap of his fingers to serve the first customer of the day. “Don’t make a face at them, you have a debt to pay,” she warned him.
That day, Cony tried beer and learned to sign in, but his “bad face” never went away. Her salary was 300 pesos a week. If she wanted to earn more money to send to her mother and her children, she had to take it from the clients. The more alcohol they consumed, the more profits for the business, which was reflected in her commission.
Sleeping with clients meant a higher payment for the young women. But the amount depended on how well they fulfilled their wishes. Cony says she never agreed.
On the first day of work, a toothless man arrived who, despite the time that has passed, still remembers with disgust. He went straight to the boss and asked Xiomara. “They already paid for you,” said the owner, ordering the girl to “take care of him.”
Everyone’s eyes followed Xiomara to the little room.
When the man left, the young women examined their companion. “But skinny, you still have paint [on your mouth],” she wondered. They were relieved when Xiomara told them that even if they slept with clients, they could refuse to kiss them. She then put some bills in her bra.
“I’m alone, where am I going to go?” Cony thought. One day the owner asked him: “Do you want to send money to my mother-in-law?” So she knew that she always slept “with everyone who arrived.”
He chose the long way out, earning extra money by drinking beer with clients. He was paid 15 pesos per “chip”. “I was adapting and adapting. “Me getting drunk and them getting rich.”
Two months after his arrival he was able to rent a room next to the Telmex antenna, in the center of Frontera Comalapa, by the saddleries, near the bar.
In that space, now his, he felt free to invite Xiomara to cook “frijolitos” and watch soap operas. Together they received a “job” proposal that brought them a little closer to home. In a bar in Guatemala. And they escaped to the other side of the border.
The day after their departure, at six in the morning, Butterfly Girl shouted outside the hotel where they were sleeping: “Those two old women are mine, I paid for them to be brought to me in Comalapa!” In less than 24 hours they were back.
It is not easy to escape from Frontera Comalapa.
Cony worked in bars in the municipality for eleven years. She considers that the Mexican State was complicit in the crime of trafficking of which she was a victim because, instead of protecting her, some agents of the FGE of Chiapas were her clients.
“The ones I looked at [in the bar] were those from the prosecution,” he recalls. “It would be good if the trafficking networks were dismantled. Those from the prosecution spank women. They are those of the Ministerial.”
“Here, the ones who always want to get their hands on you at the bar are those from immigration and the prosecutor’s office,” says Rosa in the birthing house, while waiting to meet her friend Daniela’s baby.
There is a distance of almost ten years, from 2009 to 2018, between the events that Cony and the two sisters narrate, but in both cases their testimony points to Mexican officials complicit in the crime of trafficking.
One February 14, Cony remembers, her boss arrived with thongs for everyone because he wanted to organize a catwalk for the Day of Love and Friendship. They’ll take more money out of customers’ pockets, she told them.
It was the day Cony fled forever. Nobody chased her. She had met her useful cycle time in that job. She even stayed to live nearby, she started a family.
Butterfly Girl continued with her illicit business. In 2020 she met Cony on the street and said “how pretty you are” that reminded her of her fine arts of manipulation.
“No one has dared to denounce that Butterfly Girl, and here she lives, here that woman lives!”
Wall of corruption
Sister Lidia Mara Silva de Souza fought trafficking for twelve years, mainly in San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa, as a member of the Scalabrinian Mission. This work allowed him to discover that, in Honduras, the secrets of this criminal business are protected by an insurmountable wall of corruption built in courts and prosecutors’ offices.
“We have found that public officials are involved in trafficking networks. There is no investigation or prosecution of the crime because [the business owners] are political figures, big businessmen, people with a lot of influence,” she says one day in 2021, recently installed in Mexico, her new destination.
In 2010, the Scalabrinian Mission opened a shelter house in Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital, for women who were victims of trafficking while traveling the migratory route. That year, an envoy from the central government asked them to stop fighting trafficking “because there were judges and high-ranking officials in the country involved,” the nun recalls.
They ignored him and continued working. But the threats continued. “We received calls for us to close, they were threats against our staff, [asking] us to hand over the women.”
The phone number was confidential, as was the location of the place. “How could it be that just beginning the process, with the first case we had, they made calls to a number that was not public? Corruption within the system is evident here,” he says.
According to what Sister Lidia Mara told us, another link in the trafficking chain is in the government institutions of Honduras.
The house in Tegucigalpa was followed by another in San Pedro Sula, founded the same year. There, the warning was brutal: they dumped a body at the entrance with the message that it should be handed over to the young women they had rescued or the next victims would be the nuns.
The criminals needed a corpse and murdered a random person. The homicide was not reported further, says the nun, because in these cases a survival code is “not knowing.”
It was the definitive threat. The project was suspended and trafficking victims were left without shelter. “We had no way to protect them. We already knew that it was [due to the] corruption of the Public Ministry, of those who were supposed to take care of us. “It was a very, very difficult situation.”
Sister Lidia Mara is also a survivor; Anyone who investigates trafficking in the region and doesn’t die trying, she says, is. “The time I was in Honduras, my life has been at risk for fighting human trafficking.”
The former director of the Interinstitutional Commission against Commercial Sexual Exploitation and Human Trafficking of Honduras (Cicesct), Rosa Corea – in an interview conducted in 2021, when she was still in office – recognizes the participation of public officials from her country in the trafficking business, as the Scalabrinian nun denounces.
“They are officials of different ranks, but especially those who operate at the borders. They are workers who have a position and from there they facilitate these operations.”
Regarding the control that organized crime exercises over trafficking networks in Frontera Comalapa, Corea says that it is “an issue that is talked about.” “If you look at the records of missing persons in Honduras who left through that migratory route, the numbers are very high; So, there is a high probability, indeed, that this is happening.”
According to the latest Analysis of Missing Persons in Honduras , prepared by the National Police, of the 940 people missing in the country in 2022, 38 percent are women. The municipalities with the highest number of registered cases are the Central District (44 percent) and San Pedro Sula (11 percent). The majority of disappearances took place in homes (39 percent) and on public roads (33 percent); only 17 percent occurred in an “unspecified” location.
At the end of last July, the National Human Rights Commissioner reported that, from 2018 to 2022, more than 1,900 women and girls disappeared in the country.
The former director of Cicesct considers credible the statement of the IOM officials interviewed that those who make up these networks in Central America are traffickers, and in Mexico members of organized crime: “That the countries are not able to find those fifteen or seventeen people [who make up the trafficking chain] is worrying,” he points out.
The Scalabrinian Mission was able to determine in 2012, based on testimonies, that the trafficking corridor is related to migratory routes, which in turn are used by drug trafficking.
“The irregular migrant is usually forced to participate [in drug transportation] and provide information,” says Sister Lidia Mara. “They are very dynamic routes. It is easy to recruit the migrant because he is already vulnerable.”
Saint Simon, sinner and protector
It smells funny in the bar: like a mixture of cleaning products and spilled beer. The floor is stickier behind the chairs than under the tables.
“When the customer goes to the bathroom, we throw the beer behind the seats,” says a woman who works in the business. It is a trick that the bartender has suggested to them to take care of themselves, because the less alcohol they drink, the better they will be able to control the hands of the customers.
The women often look at the bar, where a figure about 30 centimeters tall stands out. He is a man with a cigarette in his mouth and others scattered around him; Glasses with tequila and incense surround it. He is sitting on a small chair, holding a bag of money and wearing a suit and hat. His mustache is reminiscent of Jorge Negrete. They know him as San Simón. “El Moncho,” they call him in Frontera Comalapa.
This Guatemalan saint – not recognized by the Catholic Church – is a protector of “broken people,” explains anthropologist Blanca Mónica Marín Valadez, a doctorate in Mesoamerican Studies at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, who has studied his cult in the bars of the region.
The image of Moncho is that of a drinker and a sinner. Someone who protects and does not judge.
The local authorities understood that they could not eradicate prostitution and installed a tolerance zone at the entrance to Frontera Comalapa. It operates one hundred meters from the municipal palace.
In a bar in the area is San Simón. They have it behind the bar. Looks clean. They don’t neglect it. They fear him. “He is very jealous”, “he always looks at us”, “he takes care of us”, they say.
Some women went to this bar of their own free will after passing through businesses controlled by organized crime. Others arrived forced by “a series of circumstances”; There they receive a payment and they can talk, express themselves, says Josefina.
There are several bars that operate on the same property, under municipal regulations. That, for some reason, keeps criminals away.
“It is a very interesting area that has received sexually abused women. There are safe houses where they are enslaved,” says Marín Valadez, sitting at a table with a woman who is over fifty and arrived in Frontera Comalapa in distant times.
They both talk about Moncho; The day of his celebration is October 28 . They talk about how it awakens a “rabid” devotion in them that is expressed by living on the edge.
“They escape from the mafias and arrive here, but with the freedom to get paid. In some way they also try to redefine their work. They practice prostitution because they want to give their children a good life,” explains the anthropologist.
San Simón arrived in the municipality along with the Guatemalan population forced to move due to the internal armed conflict in their country. Frontera Comalapa is one of the four points in the region where thousands of people began to arrive in 1980. According to the Mexican Commission for Aid to Refugees (Comar), in 1983 there were more than 40 thousand Guatemalans in Chiapas.
“An extremely important context in Comalapa,” says Marín Valadez, “has been the Guatemalan war, which disrupted many things here.”
It is a region, says the researcher, that “has more connection with Central America than with central Mexico,” with porous boundaries that can be crossed from Guatemala through eight official border crossings and countless illegal crossings on rural roads.
Organized crime, he adds, has taken root in the area, where there is “a very strong institutional vacuum,” which helps criminal groups control the territory.
“People live with drug traffickers, establish relationships with them. It is not that they are dedicated to drug trafficking or are pleased with this situation, but rather that they see the need to establish negotiations to survive.”
Saint Simón accompanies “the others”, the “broken” people, in places where there is “a social fabric with deep-rooted conflicts”. Organized crime, violence. People forced to “live on the periphery,” says the researcher.
The cult of Moncho also entails an attempt at healing, he affirms. They want to recover and are looking for a way.
Babies without registration
In November 2021, exactly 24 hours before the birth of Daniela’s son, Ana and Rosa’s friend, fifteen midwives are gathered in the patio of the birth house talking and eating roast chicken with tortillas and beans under the shade of a mango tree.
Ariadna, a midwife for more than twenty years, says that her biggest concern with “migrant moms who are living here out of necessity” is that they have too many difficulties obtaining legal registration for their children. “Don’t discriminate against them! "Children born here are Mexican and must have their birth certificates."
Fabi, with an experience similar to Ariadna’s, has not struggled so much to have her certificates considered valid by the Civil Registry. She says she feels relieved because for years “a doctor at the health center told us not to treat Central American women.” Now that she can do it, she worries because parturient Honduran women often arrive with anemia.
Having been a midwife for 45 years, Dorotea says that less than a week ago two Honduran women arrived who, after giving birth, left with their babies and never returned. “Every month I serve at least one or two who are Honduran. They are here only once.”
She says she does not remember what year she began receiving women from Honduras who work in bars in her office, but she tries to remember: “I saw two who worked in the cantinas. The children are already grown, they will be ten years old”, that is, around 2011.
“They come to have their children, and the next day or the second day they leave. A day of rest [after giving birth] is very little, but that’s how the people at the bar handle it. Afterwards we don’t know anything,” says Claudia, another midwife who lives in Chamic.
Central American women, who have lived in the area for weeks, months or years, arrive home. They are ephemeral visits to “get the baby settled”, give them “a snack”, or directly to give birth.
Sometimes they are accompanied by an older woman who “employs” them in a bar. Or by men whom Claudia prefers not to know anything about. For security.
Dorotea, the most experienced, closes the conversation and, before collecting the Styrofoam plates and leftover tortillas, laments that the criminals in her native Frontera Comalapa do not attract the attention of any authority, unlike when she goes with the baby of a Honduran woman to process her birth certificate to the Civil Registry, and is rejected and pointed out: “They say I am negotiating with the certificates.”
Those who work in bars, he says, are not looking for doctors; They go to the midwives. “They say that they leave their places because there is no work, that it is difficult for them to feed their children, that there is a lot of crime.”
At the time of the interview, Dorotea estimates that fifteen girls and boys without a birth certificate were born in her home. One is already five years old.
The Nich Ixim organization, from San Cristóbal de las Casas, brings together more than 600 midwives from different areas of Chiapas. He assures that in Frontera Comalapa an average of 40 “migrant babies” are born every month and remain unregistered. They are born in the midwives’ rooms, in their beds, with the few resources they have; They are also lit secretly, in precarious homes in rural communities.
The federal Ministry of Health and the Mexican Social Security Institute were asked how many Honduran women were treated during their pregnancy, childbirth and postpartum, from 2010 to 2022, both in Chiapas and Frontera Comalapa. But, once again, they have no information.
At the end of the meeting, the midwives talk about their custom of spreading the placentas on a piece of cardboard to form the figure of a tree of life, or using a double piece of cardboard, that of a butterfly with its wings spread, on which They combine purple, red, violet and pink tones. It is a small ritual of celebration of life.
The escape
There is no ritual or butterfly figure for Daniela. The placenta is enclosed in a plastic bag. In the dry dirt yard dotted with small river stones, under the shade of the mango tree, a boy digs a hole to bury her.
Outside the room where the young Honduran woman gave birth, you can hear the cry of the newborn and a voice that responds with caresses. Ana and Rosa talk loudly, burst out laughing at some anecdote, or curse the luck that took them from their country.
Three Honduran women with children born in Mexico. Three victims of trafficking for sexual exploitation.
That day, Ana plans to travel 4,189 kilometers across the national territory, heading to Tijuana; She is preparing to spend 46 hours on a bus with her two children: the eldest with a refugee application and the baby born in Mexico.
“I can’t take a step without him noticing, but I have to try,” he says about “the Mexican.”
Ana runs away a day later with a backpack on her back; Without documents proving her legal stay in the country, she only carries the birth certificate of her Mexican baby, provided by her midwife. She carries her daughter on her lap and the boy walks behind her.
The most difficult thing is to cross the Chamic community, to get away from the radar of your “partner.” After an hour of travel, they arrive in Comitán and cross without incident the immigration checkpoint located at the entrance, where the inspections of the buses by INM agents are fierce.
They pass by Comitán, leave San Cristóbal de las Casas behind and head to Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the capital of Chiapas. The first goal is a big city where they can go unnoticed, almost unreachable by their abuser.
Upon arriving at a toll booth located shortly before arriving in Tuxtla, Gutiérrez is detained at a provisional immigration checkpoint. She shows her daughter’s birth certificate, but they don’t accept it. They take her off the bus with her children and leave her dumped on the road.
He starts asking for help on WhatsApp, returns to San Cristóbal de las Casas and gets a room in a small hotel. We met in the morning at the entrance to the city; She is sitting at the foot of the statue of Fray Bartolomé de las Casas eating cookies with his children. Let’s go for some steamed carnitas tacos.
Ana decides to go to the INM facilities in San Cristóbal de las Casas to request a transit permit through the country. A civil organization from Chiapas, Formación y Capacitación (Foca), offers to host it. We say goodbye.
A couple of days go by without him responding to my messages until he tells me that he is back in Frontera Comalapa; he sends the emoji of a sad face with tears at which he points a gun.
A year later, on November 2, 2022, I received a WhatsApp from a very distant place located in the north of the continent. It is a number registered in the name of a certain Single Mother: “I am the girl who once came to interview in Frontera Comalapa.”
It’s Ana, finally free.
This report was prepared by Quinto Elemento Lab with the editorial collaboration of the digital newspaper El Faro .