Postcard — April 13, 2018, 8:41 am

Body Hunters

Searching for closure in Veracruz 

Mia Zurita. Photograph by the author.

In January, on a cold morning in the mountains of Córdoba, Veracruz, a dozen people gathered in a drafty hotel conference room. On the tables in front of them, propped up against complimentary bottles of water, were laminated sheets of paper. Each one featured a man’s photograph and below it his name, height, and age. The headlines were all the same: Ayúdanos a encontrarlo!—Help us find him!

Yadira Reyna, a forensic anthropologist based in Mexico City, stood at the front of the room next to two of her colleagues. “We hope that you all find your loved ones alive,” she said in Spanish. “But in case the worst happens, this training will give you some ideas of what to do.”

ON THE RADIO

Listen to an audio version of this story by NPR’s Latino USA:

The people sitting around the tables were there because they expected that the worst had happened. Their sons, husbands, and fathers had been missing for months or years, most likely killed by gang members and buried in unmarked graves. Mexico does not have the resources to find and identify every body, so Reyna, who worked for two years for the federal government, helps the families of the missing learn how to hunt for the graves themselves.

Reyna asked everyone in the room to introduce themselves and share something they love that starts with the first letter of their name. A young woman stood up. She was wearing a white T-shirt printed with photograph of a man’s face. “Hello, my name is Rosario,” she said. She looked at a woman sitting beside her—her mother, Concepción Chavez Fuentes. “We’re looking for my dad, Artemio Solano Jeda.” She said that her dad, the man pictured on her shirt, was kidnapped six months ago. “What I love are rosas blancas—white roses.”

Marcela Zurita Rosas, a fifty-nine-year-old woman wearing a velour tracksuit and movie-star sunglasses, went next. “Me llamo Marcela,” she said, blinking at the ceiling. “I’m here for my son. He’s been missing for five years.” Her eyes blinked faster. “I like el mar—the sea. Or, rather, I used to like it. Because I took my son there all the time.” Her voice caught. “Now I don’t like the sea.”

The forensics team opened their presentation with a slideshow listing the federal and state agencies one can contact to find missing people. The projector displayed a stream of screenshots from various government websites. The group started taking notes, but their pens soon ceased to move. At first I attributed this lack of interest to boredom. But then I realized that they had already filled out the official forms and contacted the official agencies. None of these websites helped them find their missing husbands and sons.

When Reyna clicked to a slide going over the procedures that authorities follow when they receive a missing person’s report, Zurita muttered, “The police here don’t do it that way.” When Reyna started talking about digging in different soil types, Zurita interjected that in Córdoba bodies aren’t found in the ground. “The dirt here is clay. It’s too hard,” she said, “so criminals drop the bodies down water wells.”

After lunch, during a presentation on how to train dogs to hunt for the scent of decaying flesh, Reyna told the group, “Certain self-made forensics experts in this country are going to gravesites and just digging at random, digging everywhere.” She went on to say that untrained diggers were not following proper methodology, and so the dogs were often confused.This is the problem of amateurs leading excavations.”

Zurita stood up and sighed. “We know our work isn’t perfect,” she said. “But the police don’t help. And we’re not going to wait years to find the bodies of the missing.” She continued, “The missing are our family members. We can’t wait.”

Since the turn of the decade, the state of Veracruz has suffered some of Mexico’s worst violence, as several drug cartels, including Los Zetas and Jalisco Nueva Generación, have fought to control the state’s lucrative smuggling routes north to the United States. The most reliable estimates put the number of people murdered in Mexico due to organized crime at 80,000 since 2006, and the number of people disappeared at over 30,000, though many deaths and disappearances stay off the record. In 2013, it was reported that police were not notified of as many as 98 percent of disappearances over the previous year. Even when they are notified, government investigations lag far behind. Jorge Winckler, the state prosecutor, found that agents in Veracruz were only looking into about two-thirds of disappearance cases.

The men and women gathered in Córdoba for the forensics workshop were members of a group called Solecito that was formed on WhatsApp in 2014 by a Veracruz mother who had lost her son. She selected a sun to be the icon for the text thread—a bright spot in the darkness—and invited other parents of missing children to share emotional support. As the members started to trade stories of their interactions with the legal authorities, they realized that the police were either unable or unwilling to find their children, so they decided to teach themselves forensics in order to find and excavate the mass graves that narcos commonly use as dumping grounds for their victims. Now, with more than two hundred members, Solecito is one of the largest group of amateur grave hunters in the country.

On Mother’s Day, 2016, as the group was marching through the streets of a nearby town to protest the government’s inability to find their kids, two men approached and handed one of the women a map with Xs marking a field in the neighborhood of Colinas de Santa Fe. The map identified the site as one of the Jalisco Nueva Generacíon cartel’s burial grounds.

The local police were hesitant to let Solecito search the Colinas site—federal authorities had already found five bodies there and they doubted how many more could be uncovered by distraught mothers—but the group insisted. To fund the dig, Solecito sold used clothes and canvassed the streets for donations; they raised four thousand dollars and bought dozens of tools, including shovels, post-hole diggers, and machetes. In August of that year, they started digging. So far, the site has yielded 287 bodies—it’s the country’s largest known mass grave.

Zurita is the leader of the Córdoba branch of Solecito, and she was part of the first brigade of mothers to excavate Colinas de Santa Fe. When I asked her how many bodies she had dug up there, she responded, “One grave after another.” I pressed her for a number and she shrugged, explaining that graves usually contain contractor bags holding several bodies, or a jumble of body parts. It’s hard to sort the pieces, she said, and count how many might be inside.

Five days after the workshop, I accompanied a half-dozen members of Solecito on a busqueda—a grave hunt. Zurita drove some of the group in her sedan, including Rosario and Concepción, who were on their first excursion, while I drove the rest in my rental car. We had a security escort, two state police officers toting assault rifles, following us in a white pickup truck. They offered to transport Solecito’s digging tools—shovels, pickaxes, post-hole diggers, hammers—in the bed of the truck.

Last May, Solecito’s Facebook account received a tip that human remains were stuffed down an abandoned water well southwest of Córdoba. Zurita brought a group out to inspect the site a month later, but the water level in the well was high, making the search difficult. They hooked a sneaker in the well and managed to haul it almost to the top, but it slipped free. Before the shoe fell, Zurita says, she saw a foot in it. After that visit, the group requested that a team from the federal prosecutor’s office investigate, and although they traveled to the site, they didn’t rappel down the well. So we headed back. Zurita hoped that by finding more evidence herself, she could force authorities to conduct a search.

As we drove out of town, the city quickly dissolved into farmland. Thick, green forests crowded the road, and mountains rose in the distance. Occasionally the forest cleared, and we passed vast sugarcane fields. An hour into the drive, our convoy turned up a steep dirt road. We abandoned the car and climbed into the bed of the truck, driving until we reached a narrow clearing. At the heart of the clearing was a cement well.

The members of Solecito walked up to the well, which was surrounded by thick foliage. It was a sunny day, but the well sat in shade. Its cement cylinder rose three feet above the ground, half-decomposed, chipped, and patchy with the colors of rot. A rusted pulley hung over the mouth.

Zurita peered over the edge of the well, into its depths. “It’s basically empty,” she declared. There had been little rain since her last visit, and the water was low. Eyeballing it, Zurita estimated that the well’s shaft was fifty to seventy-five feet deep—too deep and dark to risk lowering anyone into it. So, under Zurita’s direction, the men tied a few small hooks to a rope and worked the rope through the well’s rusty pulley. Paco slowly paid out the rope as Zurita guided it down the shaft. As the hooks descended, bats suddenly flew out, and Zurita shrieked in fear. It surprised me that someone who unearths corpses was afraid of bats.

After a few slow descents and ascents recovered nothing, it became clear that blindly scraping lightweight hooks against the bottom of the well would not work. Zurita instructed her son to tie a rock above the hooks to make them heavier, a strategy that Paco called “fishing.”

Once the weighted hooks were fully pulled out they saw that one was glistening—it had penetrated about a foot into the muddy bottom of the well. Zurita lifted the hook to her nose. “It smells like caca,” she said. She passed the hook around for the other members of Solecito to sniff and informed them that in their first stages of decay, corpses smell of feces. “There’s something down there,” she said.

Zurita still wasn’t convinced that the tool was going deep enough. She instructed Paco and a man named Don Marcos to fetch a five-foot length of rebar with a shorter length welded near its top, in the form of a cross. Normally the tool is used to pierce the ground. When lifted out it can be inspected for the stench of rotting remains, thereby indicating the depth of a body.

The men tied the rebar to the rope and hung it from the pulley with its sharpened side pointed down. They decided to drop the rebar from forty feet up with the aim of spearing whatever was resting at the bottom of the well. Over the next hour, the pole recovered several objects—a piece of tire, an old plastic gas can, a coconut shell. But no sneaker.

Rosario and Concepción joined the fishing efforts, and the tool underwent some modifications: the sharp side of the rebar was turned to point upward, with its crossbar pointing down, then Paco tied hooks to the crossbar. The first time the improved tool was dropped, the hooks sank so deeply into the mud that it took three people, including one of the state police, to tug it free. After a few more attempts, Rosario shouted that they’d hooked something. Zurita rushed over and grabbed the flashlight. “It’s a sneaker.”

Solecito and the state police officers crowded against the well’s edge as Zurita instructed Paco to pull the rope up slowly. “Slowly, slowly,” she said, entreating them not to lose their find. The other members of Solecito held their breath. The squawks of birds and the buzzing insects from the jungle suddenly seemed loud.

As soon as the pole reached the top, Zurita unhooked the shoe. It was white and heavily caked with mud. Zurita turned it over, and brown water poured out of the mouth. There was no foot, no blood. Zurita wasn’t sure if it was the same shoe as before. She asked for a bag to store this potential evidence, but neither Solecito nor the state police had one. One of the police officers walked to the truck and returned with two styrofoam trays from lunch. He sandwiched the shoe between them for safekeeping.

The group continued to drop the pole into the well for another thirty minutes, and then Zurita declared the search finished. It was only 2 pm, but she told me that the area was a battleground after dark. Although she couldn’t confirm that there was a body in the well, she said that the shoe would help her pressure the police to send a team to search again.

Rosario, Concepción, and I walked the short distance back to the cars. After a day spent under the shade of thick forest, the sun felt good, but I was rattled—not at our find, but at the amateurism of the operation. How much death must be littered throughout Veracruz for untrained people to stumble so freely upon it? If the state funded well-equipped professionals to do Solecito’s work, how many more mass graves would be unearthed?

I ask Rosario how she felt about her first excursion, and she replied that she was satisfied. I asked if she was disappointed that she didn’t find a body. She shook her head. “I want to find more, more pieces of missing people. We’re not going to stop looking.”

Support for this article was provided by a grant from the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting. The story was reported in partnership with NPR’s Latino USA. A radio version of this story is available on latinousa.org.

Share
Single Page

Get access to 168 years of
Harper’s for only $45.99

United States Canada

CATEGORIES

THE CURRENT ISSUE

August 2018

Combustion Engines

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

There Will Always Be Fires

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The End of Eden

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

How to Start a Nuclear War

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

view Table Content

FEATURED ON HARPERS.ORG

Article
Combustion Engines·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

On any given day last summer, the smoke-choked skies over Missoula, Montana, swarmed with an average of twenty-eight helicopters and eighteen fixed-wing craft, a blitz waged against Lolo Peak, Rice Ridge, and ninety-six other wildfires in the Lolo National Forest. On the ground, forty or fifty twenty-person handcrews were deployed, alongside hundreds of fire engines and bulldozers. In the battle against Rice Ridge alone, the Air Force, handcrews, loggers, dozers, parachutists, flacks, forecasters, and cooks amounted to some nine hundred people.

Rice Ridge was what is known as a mega-fire, a recently coined term for blazes that cover more than 100,000 acres. The West has always known forest fires, of course, but for much of the past century, they rarely got any bigger than 10,000 acres. No more. In 1988, a 250,000-acre anomaly, Canyon Creek, burned for months, roaring across a forty-mile stretch of Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness in a single night. A few decades on, that anomaly is becoming the norm. Rice Ridge, for its part, swept through 160,000 acres.

At this scale, the firefighting operation is run by an incident management team, a group of about thirty specialists drawn from a mix of state and federal agencies and trained in fields ranging from aviation to weather forecasting and accounting to public information. The management teams are ranked according to experience and ability, from type 3 (the least skilled) to type 1 (the most). The fiercest fires are assigned to type 1s. Teams take the name of their incident commander, the field general, and some of those names become recognizable, even illustrious, in the wildfire-fighting community. One such name is that of Greg Poncin, who is to fire commanders what Wyatt Earp was to federal marshals.

Smoke from the Lolo Peak fire (detail) © Laura Verhaeghe
Article
There Will Always Be Fires·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The pinhal interior, a wooded region of hills and narrow hollows in rural central Portugal, used to be farmland. Well into the latter half of the past century, the fields were worked by peasants from the old stone villages. Portugal was poor and isolated, and the pinhal interior particularly so; when they could, the peasants left. There is electricity and running water now, but most of the people have gone. The fields have been taken over by trees. Each year the forest encroaches farther, and each year the villages grow more lonely. There are remnants of the earlier life, though, and amid the trees the holdouts of the older generations still work a few small fields. The pinhal interior cannot yet be called wilderness, then, and that, in large part, is why it burns.

Thousands of fires burn in the region each summer, almost all of them started not by lightning or some other natural spark but by the remaining Portuguese. (The great majority of the blazes are started unintentionally, though not all.) The pinhal interior—the name means “interior pine forest,” though today there is at least as much eucalyptus as pine—stretches along a sort of climate border between the semiarid Iberian interior and the wet influence of the Atlantic; vegetation grows exceptionally well there, and in the summers fire conditions are ideal. Still, most of the burns are quickly contained, and although they have grown larger in recent years, residents have learned to pay them little mind. The creeping fire that began in the dry duff and twigs of an oak grove on June 17 of last year, in the district of Pe­drógão Grande, therefore occasioned no panic.

A local woman, Dora da Silva Co­sta, drove past the blaze in the midafternoon, by which time it had entered a stand of pines. Firefighters were on hand. “There were no people in the streets,” Costa told me. “It was just another fire.” She continued on her way. It was a Saturday, and she had brought her two young sons to visit their older cousin in Vila Facaia, the village of small farms in which she’d been raised.

Firefighters near Pedrógão Grande (detail) © Pablo Blazquez Dominguez/Getty Images
Article
The End of Eden·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

On a blistering morning in July 2017, Ghazi Luaibi rose before dawn and set out in a worn black sedan from his home in Zubair, a town of concrete low-rises in southern Iraq. He drove for a while along sandy roads strewn with plastic bags. On the horizon, he could see gas flares from the oil refineries, pillars of amber flame rising into the sky. As he approached Basra, the largest city in the province, desert scrub gave way to empty apartment blocks and rows of withered palms. Though the sun had barely risen, the temperature was already nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The previous year, Basra had registered one of the highest temperatures ever reliably recorded on earth: about 129 degrees, hot enough to cause birds to drop from the sky.

Ghazi, a sixty-two-year-old with stooped shoulders, an ash-gray beard, and lively brown eyes, would have preferred to stay home and wait out the heat. But he hadn’t had much of a choice. He was the president of the local council of Mandaeans, members of a gnostic religion that appeared in Mesopotamia in the early centuries ad. Today marked the beginning of their new year, and Ghazi, who was born into the Mandaean priestly class, was responsible for making sure everything went smoothly: he needed to find a tent to shield worshippers from the sun and, most importantly, a location near flowing water where they could carry out the ceremony.

Mandaean holidays are celebrated with a mass baptism, a ritual that is deeply rooted in their scripture and theology. Mandaeans follow the teachings of Yahia Yuhana, known to Christians as John the Baptist. Water is central to their religion. They believe that all life originates in the World of Light, a spiritual realm that is the starting point for a great river known as Yardana, or Jordan. Outside the World of Light lie the lifeless, stagnant waters of the World of Darkness. According to one version of the Mandaean creation myth, a demiurge named Ptahil set out to shape a new world from the World of Darkness, which became the material world we inhabit today. Once the world was complete, Ptahil sculpted Adam, the first man, from the same dark waters as the earth, but his soul came from the World of Light. In Mandaean scripture, rivers are manifestations of the World of Light, coursing from the heavenly Jordan to the earth to purify it. To be baptized is to be immersed in this divine realm.

Basra General Hospital (detail) July 2017 © Alex Potter
Article
How to Start a Nuclear War·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Serving as a US Air Force launch control officer for intercontinental missiles in the early Seventies, First Lieutenant Bruce Blair figured out how to start a nuclear war and kill a few hundred million people. His unit, stationed in the vast missile fields at Malmstrom Air Force Base, in Montana, oversaw one of four squadrons of Minuteman II ­ICBMs, each missile topped by a W56 thermonuclear warhead with an explosive force of 1.2 megatons—eighty times that of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. In theory, the missiles could be fired only by order of the president of the United States, and required mutual cooperation by the two men on duty in each of the launch control centers, of which there were five for each squadron.

In fact, as Blair recounted to me recently, the system could be bypassed with remarkable ease. Safeguards made it difficult, though not impossible, for a two-man crew (of either captains or lieutenants, some straight out of college) in a single launch control center to fire a missile. But, said Blair, “it took only a small conspiracy”—of two people in two separate control centers—to launch the entire squadron of fifty missiles, “sixty megatons targeted at the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea.” (The scheme would first necessitate the “disabling” of the conspirators’ silo crewmates, unless, of course, they, too, were complicit in the operation.) Working in conjunction, the plotters could “jury-rig the system” to send a “vote” by turning keys in their separate launch centers. The three other launch centers might see what was happening, but they would not be able to override the two votes, and the missiles would begin their firing sequence. Even more alarmingly, Blair discovered that if one of the plotters was posted at the particular launch control center in overall command of the squadron, they could together format and transmit a “valid and authentic launch order” for general nuclear war that would immediately launch the entire US strategic nuclear missile force, including a thousand Minuteman and fifty-four Titan missiles, without the possibility of recall. As he put it, “that would get everyone’s attention, for sure.” A more pacifically inclined conspiracy, on the other hand, could effectively disarm the strategic force by formatting and transmitting messages invalidating the presidential launch codes.

When he quit the Air Force in 1974, Blair was haunted by the power that had been within his grasp, andhe resolved to do something about it. But when he started lobbying his former superiors, he was met with indifference and even active hostility. “I got in a fair scrap with the Air Force over it,” he recalled. As Blair well knew, there was supposed to be a system already in place to prevent that type of unilateral launch. The civilian leadership in the Pentagon took comfort in this, not knowing that the Strategic Air Command, which then controlled the Air Force’s nuclear weapons, had quietly neutralized it.

This reluctance to implement an obviously desirable precaution might seem extraordinary, but it is explicable in light of the dominant theme in the military’s nuclear weapons culture: the strategy known as “launch under attack.” Theoretically, the president has the option of waiting through an attack before deciding how to respond. But in practice, the system of command and control has been organized so as to leave a president facing reports of incoming missiles with little option but to launch. In the words of Lee Butler, who commanded all US nuclear forces at the end of the Cold War, the system the military designed was “structured to drive the president invariably toward a decision to launch under attack” if he or she believes there is “incontrovertible proof that warheads actually are on the way.” Ensuring that all missiles and bombers would be en route before any enemy missiles actually landed meant that most of the targets in the strategic nuclear war plan would be destroyed—thereby justifying the purchase and deployment of the massive force required to execute such a strike.

Among students of nuclear command and control, this practice of precluding all options but the desired one is known as “jamming” the president. Blair’s irksome protests threatened to slow this process. When his pleas drew rejection from inside the system, he turned to Congress. Eventually the Air Force agreed to begin using “unlock codes”—codes transmitted at the time of the launch order by higher authority without which the crews could not fire—on the weapons in 1977. (Even then, the Navy held off safeguarding its submarine-launched nuclear missiles in this way for another twenty years.)

Following this small victory, Blair continued to probe the baroque architecture of nuclear command and control, and its extreme vulnerability to lethal mishap. In the early Eighties, while working with a top-secret clearance for the Office of Technology Assessment, he prepared a detailed report on such shortcomings. The Pentagon promptly classified it as SIOP-ESI—a level higher than top secret. (SIOP stands for Single Integrated Operational Plan, the US plan for conducting a nuclear war. ESI stands for Extremely Sensitive Information.) Hidden away in the Pentagon, the report was withheld from both relevant senior civilian officials and the very congressional committees that had commissioned it in the first place.

From positions in Washington’s national security think tanks, including the Brookings Institution, Blair used his expertise and scholarly approach to gain access to knowledgeable insiders at the highest ranks, even in Moscow. On visits to the Russian capital during the halcyon years between the Cold War’s end and the renewal of tensions in the twenty-first century, he learned that the Soviet Union had actually developed a “dead hand” in ultimate control of their strategic nuclear arsenal. If sensors detected signs of an enemy nuclear attack, the USSR’s entire missile force would immediately launch with a minimum of human intervention—in effect, the doomsday weapon that ends the world in Dr. Strangelove.

Needless to say, this was a tightly held arrangement, known only to a select few in Moscow. Similarly chilling secrets, Blair continued to learn, lurked in the bowels of the US system, often unknown to the civilian leadership that supposedly directed it. In 1998, for example, on a visit to the headquarters of Strategic Command (­STRATCOM), the force controlling all US strategic nuclear weapons, at Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha, Nebraska, he discovered that the ­­­STRATCOM targeting staff had unilaterally chosen to interpret a presidential order on nuclear targeting in such a way as to reinsert China into the ­SIOP, from which it had been removed in 1982, thereby provisionally consigning a billion Chinese to nuclear immolation. Shortly thereafter, he informed a senior White House official, whose reaction Blair recalled as “surprised” and “befuddled.”

In 2006, Blair founded Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ridding the world of nuclear weapons, with an immediate goal of ending the policy of launch under attack. By that time, the Cold War that had generated the ­SIOP and all those nuclear weapons had long since come to an end. As a result, part of the nuclear war machine had been dismantled—warhead numbers were reduced, bombers taken off alert, weapons withdrawn from Europe. But at its heart, the system continued unchanged, officially ever alert and smooth running, poised to dispatch hundreds of precisely targeted weapons, but only on receipt of an order from the commander in chief.

Bombhead, by Bruce Conner (detail) © Conner Family Trust, San Francisco, and ARS, New York City. Courtesy Kohn Gallery, Los Angeles

Amount of aid Connecticut agreed in May to provide Bridgewater Associates, the world’s largest hedge fund:

$22,000,000

A survey of national narcissism found that Russians see themselves as responsible for 61 percent of world history, whereas the Swiss put themselves at 11 percent

Marvel Entertainment's CEO exerts influence over the VA; Mike Pence lays out plans for The Space Force; Paul Manafort's trial reveals his tax evasion (and much more)

Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!

HARPER’S FINEST

Happiness Is a Worn Gun

By

Illustration by Stan Fellows

Illustration by Stan Fellows

“Nowadays, most states let just about anybody who wants a concealed-handgun permit have one; in seventeen states, you don’t even have to be a resident. Nobody knows exactly how many Americans carry guns, because not all states release their numbers, and even if they did, not all permit holders carry all the time. But it’s safe to assume that as many as 6 million Americans are walking around with firearms under their clothes.”

Subscribe Today