I Couldn't Even Imagine That They Would Kill Us

by John Gibler

  MIGUEL ALCOCER, 20, FRESHMAN. It’s a week when you’re here and you go out and do all the things that a campesino does: clear the weeds with a machete, feed the livestock, plant, feed the pigs and the hens. All that is what we do during adjustment week, as they also call it, to see if we are really the sons of campesinos. The truth is, for me it was easy because it was all things I’ve done with my parents. We’ve worked the land, we have some land and livestock. For me, I didn’t think it was hard because, you know, it’s stuff I do at home with my parents and my brother.

  CARLOS MARTÍNEZ, 21, SOPHOMORE. I had finished my freshman year and was eager to start classes and keep studying. We even had plans in my sophomore class to take a study trip; we were planning on going to Chiapas. I felt a bit more relaxed, because the freshman year here is really intense. You show up and you have to adapt to life here at the school, to the academics, the way of life here, the context, the government harassment and persecution that’s always present, I mean it never dissipates, and you have to start, little by little, getting used to the idea that this school isn’t just any school, this school is very different.

  When I was a freshman there was a flood here in Tixtla. This whole area down here flooded. Just about half of the municipality of Tixtla flooded. Many people lost everything: their houses, their belongings, and their work. The rains started on September 13, I still recall that day well, and it kept raining without a break for several days. All of Tixtla flooded, and almost immediately a bunch of people came here to ask us for help getting their things, their belongings out of their houses. There were sick people who couldn’t walk, the elderly, and they needed our help. And there we went when I was a freshman, in September, with the rains, with the water up to our necks, taking things out of the houses and cars, and helping people with any number of things. And that was where they taught us not only to look out for ourselves, but for everyone. It was a fast reaction. I’ll admit that maybe it wasn’t organized, but it did meet the need of helping the people of Tixtla out.

  Later, the federal government designated all sorts of resources, hundreds of thousands of pesos to help this area recover. And to this day, many of the people affected haven’t received a thing. In fact, one time the army made a video where they paid some people to pretend to be wounded or something, and the soldiers were carrying them in the water. And they splashed water on their faces... well, they were actors, they were basically actors for the army. And the people here were so outraged when they saw that the only thing the army had come to do was pretend, precisely when people needed help. Because the soldiers didn’t get in the water, they didn’t go into the flooded houses to remove people’s things. They didn’t go in the water to rescue people. We did that. And the people were so outraged when they found out that the army was making that video that they went out to where the soldiers were, they encircled the soldiers and wouldn’t let them leave until they made a public apology.

  I was also there on January 7, when two compañeros were run over in Atoyac de Álvarez. It was an accident, a hit and run. We were out [on the roadside] asking for donations, when a truck pulling some kind of heavy machinery—I don’t know what it’s called, maybe an excavator, it had like a shovel on it—and even though we were out in the road, the truck came through really fast and some compañeros weren’t able to move fast enough, to get out of the road. Three compañeros made it out alive, two others died there. Eugenio Tamari Huerta and Freddy Fernando Vázquez Crispín were the two who died there. We went after the person who had crashed into the compañeros. We followed him and were able to capture him about three towns down the highway, a place called El Cayaco. We held him there until the police arrived and took him away. That guy is in prison now for the murder of the two compañeros.

  At times it might seem that you live through more bad experiences here than good, but that’s not true.

  ERICK SANTIAGO LÓPEZ, 22, SOPHOMORE. It was around six in the evening when we gathered everyone together. The action that we had planned for that evening was to get some buses, nothing else. We left the school in two buses from the Estrella de Oro line. The action was planned in that moment, but long before that we had had a meeting with the student federation from the seventeen rural teachers colleges. In that meeting we planned for the October 2 march in Mexico City.1 Here at my school, as always, we try to support the other teachers colleges. So with the secretary and the other members of the committee—and at that time, I was a member of the committee—we came to an agreement that we would round up about twenty-five buses to transport our compañeros and compañeras from the other colleges. This had already been planned, but only people within the committee knew about it. Only the committee knows about the plans when we agree on actions, the student rank and file doesn’t know about the plans. We decided to head out that afternoon and make a call to the students that only the freshman would be going out on an action. We always take the freshman out on the actions, not the sophomores. Why? Because here at our college we say that the freshmen have to take the lead. After them, the sophomores, and at the back the seniors. Why? Because they are the ones who have to spearhead the activities. And the members of the committee go in front with the freshmen. The committee also goes at the lead, and everyone else behind them.

  JOSÉ LUIS GARCÍA, 20, FRESHMAN. On the twenty-sixth of September we were out working in the fields. They called us together because we’d be going out on an action to collect donations. And so we all got on the buses. It was around five or five-thirty in the afternoon. We went to our rooms to get T-shirts and then we left.

  OMAR GARCÍA, 24, SOPHOMORE. On the morning of the twenty-sixth we tried to go to Chilpancingo, but we couldn’t get any buses there. The police stopped us. And, you know, that’s fine, no? They stopped us as they should stop us, without beatings, without anything like that, strictly following protocol. And so we left empty-handed.

  “Where are we going to go now,” we wondered, “what are we going to do? We absolutely have to have two more buses by this afternoon. If not, we’re not going to make the goal.”

  COYUCO BARRIENTOS, 21, FRESHMAN. The argument I had with my mom had happened around January. Since then I had not communicated with her. On the afternoon of September 26, while we were in marching band practice, I saw, off in the distance, that she—my mom—was arriving. I stepped away from the compañeros, asked permission, and the vice principal gave me a chance to go talk with her. I hadn’t told her, in fact I had told hardly anyone, that I would be coming to study here. I had just focused on working, saving some money, and no one knew. I went and spoke with my mom, and after so much time you feel . . . well, nostalgia. All the other compañeros’ moms, or at least some relative of theirs, would come to visit them or send them something, money, or even just call them. And there I was, alone, without anyone to call me, or make some gesture of caring, or anything. To be honest, it was intense; I never imagined, after so much time, that she would come out here.

  Afterward, with band practice over, I went to my room to rest. That was when I started to notice that there was something going on. They started to call us, to tell us that we should get ready, that we would be going out to an action. We started to gather together and head toward the bus. The majority of us didn’t know what action we would be going on. They just said: “Let’s go, this way.” Later they told us: “We’re going to Iguala to ask for donations.” And so we all took our seats, we were relaxed.

  Other compañeros hadn’t had a chance to leave the school grounds. It was the first time they were going out. Some were talking, others were joking around. Others of us were quiet. In fact, for some groups that had been the first day of classes. And personally, for me, after not having seen my mom for so much time, it was the very day that she had come here, precisely that day. On the road I felt a kind of heavy vibe. Everything was calm. But I sensed something strange. But, you know, we kept going.

  JOSÉ ARMANDO, 20, FRESHMAN. We had our first class that morning. We all got up
excited that morning: we were happy, joking around with each other. We had class, went to eat lunch, and then went to another class. They called us out to the módulos, which is doing farm work in the different fields on campus. We went and were working in the fields, planting corn and cempasúchil and tapayola flowers. And there we were, clearing the cornfields, everyone in a good mood. Who could have imagined what was about to happen? At five o’clock they called us to go out on an action. The plan wasn’t to go to Iguala. We were going to get some buses for a reason, because Ayotzinapa was to host other students who would all travel together to the October 2 march that’s held every year to commemorate the Massacre of Tlatelolco. And so we went. We left from here at six. We all gathered together and we went in two buses that we already had at the school, they were from the company Estrella de Oro. And we went, everyone in a good mood, like we always are when we go out to an action, laughing, wrestling, and so on.

  GERMÁN, 19, FRESHMAN. We were working in the fields that we have here when some of our compañeros came up and said, “Compas, we’re heading out for an action, everyone get ready.” We went off happy, running. We stopped the fieldwork and left. We got on the bus. I was with one of my compañeros who is disappeared. (In fact, five of the compañeros that are now disappeared are my friends.) So, with all of them we were messing around like always, you see how we are, talking, fucking around, talking about girls, everything.

  SANTIAGO FLORES, 24, FRESHMAN. They had told us that that day in the afternoon they would let us go, we could leave the campus, I think for five days. They sent us to do fieldwork. They sent us to cut the weeds that had grown up in the cornfields. In the afternoon we were clearing the weeds, we were joking around with each other. The compa in charge had told us that as soon as we finished we’d be able to go home for a few days of vacation. But then some other compas from the committee showed up and told us that there would be an action. They told us we had to go, that it was required.

  With another compa I went from the fields to change, we went to get a jacket, or a sweater, since it was already late afternoon and we thought we’d be out after nightfall. My compañero didn’t want to go. He is disappeared. His name is Jesús Jovany Rodríguez Tlatempa. We call him El Churro, Doughnut. He told me he didn’t want to go. I don’t know if he sensed something, but he didn’t want to go. I told him that we should go, because if not we’d get punished. And so he said to me: “Okay, let’s go.”

  ALEX ROJAS, FRESHMAN. On September 26, we were at dance club practice when they told us there was going to be an action. They didn’t tell us exactly what kind of action it would be. And so, around six in the afternoon, together with the other compañeros from the dance club and other clubs, we went to the parking lot to get on one of the two Estrella de Oro buses. We got on the buses. I was in the second bus. We were all talking and having a good time. During the trip I was seated next to a compañero who was one of my better friends at the school. He’s from the town of Apango. And we were talking about how we wouldn’t get separated, we would stick together. I said that whatever happened we’d try and return early. We had heard that we were going to get two or three buses to use to drive to the October 2 march commemorating the massacre of students at Tlatelolco. And so we agreed that if we were going to hijack buses, we’d get on the first bus we grabbed, so we could get back to school early and avoid any trouble. My compañero, the one who was sitting next to me, is named Miguel Ángel Mendoza. He is disappeared.

  ANDRÉS HERNÁNDEZ, 21, FRESHMAN. That afternoon I—I’m in the dance club—I had finished dance practice. We finished practice and went back to our rooms. Then they called us, saying that there was going to be an action. And so, you know, we went.

  CARLOS MARTÍNEZ, 21, SOPHOMORE. Every year people commemorate the October 2 massacre in Mexico City. A whole lot of organizations from the Federal District and beyond all participate. A part of the commitment that we make to attend the march is to gather enough buses to get to the march. The issue here is that we have spent so much time asking the state government for buses to be able to get around. For example, during the week of September 22 to 25, we went to conduct classroom observations in a place called Copala, in the Costa Chica region of Guerrero.

  When you go to do classroom observations, there are two options: you pay your way, or you figure something else out, because the state doesn’t provide travel expenses, lodging, or food. In other words, they make it a requirement for you to go out there and that’s it. Our observations took place during the week of the twenty-second to the twenty-fifth, but the freshmen observations were coming up, and that’s why they had to go out on the action, it’s a tradition. If juniors have to go to classroom observations, then they have to get the buses. If those who are going to do observations are sophomores, then the sophomores have to get their buses. If the compañeros who are going to do classroom exercises or observations are freshmen, then they go for the buses. So our plan was to get buses for the October 2 march and the upcoming freshmen observations.

  We got back to school from our observations on the night of the twenty-fifth. I was really tired and went to sleep. I got up on the twenty-sixth and went to Chilpancingo to shop for some things and returned to the school around three or four in the afternoon. I was coming down the stairs and ran into Bernardo, the sophomore compañero who’s disappeared. I ran into Bernardo and he told me to go with them. I told him I had a whole bunch of stuff to do: I had to write a report, a paper we have to write when we go out to do classroom exercises. But he told me to go with them, that it would only be a while, it would be quick, and we’d have Saturday and Sunday to do our schoolwork.

  “Okay then,” I said, “let’s go.”

  We left from the college parking lot around five, maybe, around five o’clock. It took a while, a really long time, to get to Iguala, because there was construction on the highway and we were stuck there for maybe an hour and a half. We were there for a good while waiting for them to finish and open the road. We were all in good moods. The freshmen were all making jokes, messing around with each other. No one imagined that what happened was going to happen. When we got to Iguala we veered off the main highway and split up. We were in two Estrella de Oro buses. One bus stayed in Huitzuco to ask for donations, and the other bus, where I was riding, went to the Iguala tollbooth. When we got there it was beginning to get dark. The plan was to stay there and grab a bus.

  ÓSCAR LÓPEZ HERNÁNDEZ, 18, FRESHMAN. That day, September 26, we were out working, like always. We work in the afternoons and that day the committee members came and said: “Paisas, ¡jálense! Everybody get over here! Action! We’re going to get some buses!”

  MIGUEL ALCOCER, 20, FRESHMAN. That day, the twenty-sixth, we woke up early and went to the dining hall for breakfast at seven, I think. After that we had classes. We went to class. After that the teachers gave us homework. Here at the school there are five areas: farm work, academics, marching band, the rondalla [a guitar-based song group], and dance. After classes we had dance practice. We rehearsed and then got out at five. We went to the dining hall again, and since they had told us that we would be going to observe what a teacher does in the classroom, we wanted two buses, because we didn’t have other transportation. We left here around six, on the way to Iguala, to get the buses we need to go do classroom observations.

  URIEL ALONSO SOLÍS, 19, SOPHOMORE. On September 26, I remember, we sophomores had gone to observe elementary schools in the Costa Chica. I remember those days in the communities well. I came back to school on the twenty-sixth at around three in the afternoon. The compa in charge of organizing that action, a sophomore, is disappeared. His name is Bernardo Flores, but we call him Cochiloco, Crazy Pig. He told me that there would be an action in the afternoon. And to be honest, I felt like staying at the school. I had a bad feeling that something was going to happen.

  The first thing that came to mind was that we’d surely clash with riot police. But I recalled that we sophomores always have to be on the
front lines when things come to blows, running alongside the freshmen. We got on the two Estrella de Oro buses here at the school and left for Iguala. We didn’t go to Chilpancingo because in previous days we had clashed with the police there. So we decided not to go there, thinking that surely there would be a lot of cops there to beat us back. We left here around six.

  During the drive everything was really fun. We were all playing, joking around with the bus drivers. We cranked the music as loud as it would go. It was all fun, play, joy, and laughter.

  IVÁN CISNEROS, 19, SOPHOMORE. That day the compañero who was president of the Struggle Committee here at the college had asked me to help him coordinate an action. I said yes because we had just returned from our classroom observations the day before. But I told him that we should make it quick, because I needed to write my report because the teachers wanted it on Monday. I remember well that I told him yes.

  “We leave at five,” he told me.

  “Ah, okay,” I said, “that’s fine.” Afterwards I went to my room. A few minutes before five I ran into the Struggle Secretary, the one we called Cochi, a compañero who is disappeared, named Bernardo, also a sophomore.

  “Hey, paisa, we’re going to the action,” he said, “we’re going to bring back some buses.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, “let’s go.” So I went to let some other compañeros from the Order Committee know. There I asked the president, I said:

  “Hey man, what’s up? Aren’t you coming?”

  “Help me out, no? I’ve got to make a trip to Chilpo. Cover for me.”