When a Quiet Sunday Turns to a Week of Fear: Life After “El Mencho”
There are moments when a small, ordinary town becomes a stage for the country’s deepest fears. In Morelia, the cathedral bells still ring, the scent of fresh tortillas floats from storefronts and children chase dogs down narrow lanes. But on the afternoon the news broke that Nemesio Oseguera — known to the world as “El Mencho” — had been killed in a military operation in neighbouring Jalisco, the ordinary tilt of life tipped toward something far darker.
“They told us to leave the church,” said Evangeline O’Regan, an Irish woman who has called Mexico home since 2019 and lives in Morelia with her family. “My little girl was ready for a birthday party and then everything stopped. All the social events were cancelled. There’s an unofficial curfew. We’re just staying home. That’s the safe thing to do.”
Her voice, calm but tight with concern, captures the strange normality of living next to violence: the way families adapt, how routines contract into the narrowest of safe circles. Evangeline, originally from Athlone in County Westmeath, spoke on RTÉ’s Liveline and described roads blocked by burning cars and a community told — implicitly, if not always explicitly — to keep its head down.
Immediate Aftershocks: A Country on Edge
The killing of a man described by many officials as one of Mexico’s most powerful narco bosses has not been met simply with quiet celebration. Instead, the violent structures he led have reacted predictably and brutally. Since his death, at least 25 members of the Mexican National Guard and one private security guard have been reported killed in cartel-related attacks — a grim tally that underlines how fragile the surface peace really is.
A photo of a bus set alight in Zapopan, Jalisco, became emblematic: plumes of black smoke curling into a blue sky, a municipal artery scorched and smouldering. Domestic flights were disrupted. Domestic life paused. Four professional soccer matches in and around Guadalajara were postponed, reverberating into conversations about an international fixture that Ireland fans had been eyeing: a potential Republic of Ireland vs South Korea match in the same city later this year.
What locals are saying
“We live among the chaos,” said María Hernández, who runs a small café near Morelia’s Plaza de Armas. “You get used to seeing soldiers. You don’t get used to the smell of burning rubber in the middle of the day.” Her hand wrapped protective around a steaming cup of coffee as mothers with toddlers hurried past, eyes downcast.
“People are scared right now,” added Jorge Alvarez, a school maintenance worker. “Schools are closed today. That is unprecedented in my memory for this town — at least, for something that isn’t a hurricane.”
Why the Violence Escalates — And What Comes Next
What follows the fall of a cartel boss is rarely linear. Experts warn that the death of a central figure can create a vacuum that factions scramble to fill, often through spectacular demonstrations of power designed to terrorize and reassert control.
“When you remove a central authority in an organization like the CJNG, you don’t just get a replacement,” said Dr. Laura Gómez, a security analyst at the University of Guadalajara. “You get a violent period of reorganization — alliances shift, local commanders jockey for territory, and criminal enterprises that have diversified into everything from fuel theft to extortion and international trafficking attempt to secure their revenue streams. That often means targeted attacks on security forces and conspicuous acts aimed at civilians to sow fear.”
Reports suggest CJNG operations span dozens of Mexican states and extend into foreign markets — some estimates suggest influence in up to 40 countries. El Mencho had a multi-million dollar bounty on his head; the figure most frequently reported was $15 million. Those dollar signs, however, only partially explain the cartel’s reach. Money buys logistics and weapons, yes. It is also deployed to bribe, to buy silence, and to embed criminal structures within communities.
Practical fallout: flights, schools and travel advice
Governments moved quickly. Ireland’s Department of Foreign Affairs advised Irish citizens against travel to Jalisco — including Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta — and told those already in affected areas to shelter in place and follow local authorities’ directions. The US State Department issued similar guidance, urging American citizens to refrain from unnecessary movement amid roadblocks, shootouts and flight cancellations. Canada, too, called on its nationals to keep a low profile in Michoacán, Guerrero and Jalisco, citing “shootouts with security forces and explosions.”
Airlines altered schedules: several US and Canadian carriers cancelled or diverted flights. Southwest Airlines publicly confirmed that four flights bound for Puerto Vallarta turned back and that it would arrange repatriation for stranded passengers once it was safe to do so.
- Irish travel agents urged those in affected zones to remain indoors, keep phones charged and follow local advisories.
- Schools and public events in Morelia and parts of Jalisco were suspended as a precaution.
- Sports fixtures close to the unrest were postponed, sparking broader questions about safety and international events in volatile areas.
Beyond the Headlines: The Human Cost
One of the hardest things to capture in a quick news bulletin is the mundane abrasion that becomes the texture of daily life in times like these. Children’s parties cancelled. Church pews half empty. Shopkeepers boarding up midday windows. “There’s no point being on the roads and exposing yourself,” Evangeline said. That sentence—simple, practical—contains multitudes. It speaks of fear, of prudence, of small decisions that, collectively, shape community resilience.
“You learn to map danger,” said Ana Torres, an elementary school teacher. “Which streets are safe, which bus routes are risky, what hours the main plaza fills with soldiers. But mapping a life around fear isn’t living, it’s surviving.”
What this Moment Tells Us About the Global Picture
Cartels are not just a Mexican problem. They are nodes in a global network of drugs, weapons, money laundering and corruption. Their violence affects economics, tourism, diplomacy and diaspora communities. When a boss falls, the ripple effects travel outward — seeding instability that can reshape migration decisions, scare off investment and complicate international sporting calendars.
Can a state disable a criminal apparatus without inadvertently creating new, more chaotic forms of violence? What responsibility do international partners have when domestic law enforcement undertakes high-risk operations in urban areas? These are not abstract questions for analysts alone; they are the ones parents like Evangeline ask when they decide whether to let their children out to play.
Staying Human in the Hour of Fear
There is bravery in the small acts that sustain communal life: a neighbour leaving water on the doorstep, a local priest opening the church after services to shelter people who cannot reach home, a teacher making phone calls to reassure parents. Those acts do not make headlines, but they stitch the fabric of a community back together each evening.
“We hope for calm,” Evangeline said at the end of our conversation. “But everyone knows it could get messier before it gets better. For now, we eat dinner early, we lock the doors, and we watch the news. We look after each other.”
What would you do if your weekend rhythms were interrupted by the rumble of convoys and the smell of burning tyres? How do you weigh the right to go about your life against the instinct to hide? These are the questions that ripple through the streets of Morelia and the living rooms of towns across Mexico this week. They are intimate, difficult and profoundly human.
For readers watching from afar, the violence unfolding in Jalisco and Michoacán is more than another news cycle. It is a reminder that in many places, safety is not a given but a fragile achievement, defended daily by ordinary people who simply want to be able to live their lives. In their stories—of cancelled birthday parties, church pews half empty, wary shopkeepers—lie the truer costs of conflict.
