Francisco Pacheco was found shot at his doorway on the morning of April 25, 2016, in Taxco de Alarcón, Guerrero. He led the municipal affairs desk for El Foro de Taxco, a newspaper he started seventeen years earlier. Teresa Montaño is said to have been abducted quickly on August 13, 2021, while doing journalism. The assailants broke into her home, stealing files from corruption investigations, notebooks, a computer, an older iPad, a tape recorder, a camera, and a vehicle—every tool of her work. In the wake of Chapo Guzmán’s extradition, Cynthia Valdez found herself caught in the crossfire between rival factions of the Sinaloa cartel, including Chapo’s offspring and Dámaso López’s heirs. She was compelled to transcribe messages for drug dealers and continues to endure threats and harassment. Alejandro Lorenzo Ortiz left Guerrero recently after a gunman opened fire outside his residence, killing three people. Since 2015, threats, attacks, robberies, and intimidation have marked the work of those who report on corruption and crime. Now, thanks to support from Reporters Without Borders, Ortiz is in Spain with his wife and two children. Valdez, Montaño, and Pacheco’s daughter have received backing from RSF as well.
These stories illustrate the grim state of press freedom in Mexico, where eleven journalists have been killed since January. The head of Mexico’s Protection and Defense program, a unit under Article 19 that monitors freedom of expression and information, notes to El Periódico that journalists are attacked roughly every fourteen hours. The message, she says, hints at a system where the press can be attacked with impunity. The danger is not limited to a single city; it reflects a nationwide pattern where reporting on power incurs risks.
Roberto Rock, second vice president of the Americas Press Association and chief executive of the La Silla Rota portal, links the violence to a surge in organized crime that intensified after political reforms around the year 2000. He recalls a profession that has been underpaid, poorly trained, and inadequately protected by social security, making journalists easy targets for intimidation. Criminal groups quickly learned that silencing reporters could chill coverage and deter others from speaking out.
98% impunity
The consensus among Saucedo and other interviewees is that impunity fuels this cycle. Official investigations rarely lead to prosecutions, leaving crimes against the press largely unpunished. Ortiz recalls the frustration of seeing justice delayed or never served, and Priscilla Pacheco, Francisco Pacheco’s daughter, laments the lack of accountability to ensure her father’s case is not forgotten in bureaucracy. Valdez echoes that no real punishment or arrests occur, making victims feel disposable.
The attackers are often public officials entrusted with safeguarding rights, which deepens the paradox. As Pacheco stresses, police and authorities frequently lack training in human rights and journalism. The violence is not confined to a single region; it affects Guerrero, Tamaulipas, Oaxaca, and Veracruz, where drug trafficking and politics form a dangerous alliance. Reporters who cover topics that threaten cartel interests face a spectrum of retaliation, from lawsuits and smear campaigns to harassment and physical harm.
The most extreme consequence—killing journalists—has occurred repeatedly since 2000, prompting NGOs and international bodies to label Mexico as one of the most dangerous places for journalists outside of active war zones. The country also ranks poorly in global press freedom indexes, reflecting ongoing concerns about safety and accountability.
López Obrador’s daggers
In this climate, statements from the Mexican president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, have been read as hostile toward the press, delivered during his regular morning briefings. Critics describe a rhetoric that questions credibility and suggests a narrative where reporting becomes a target. Some worry that this rhetoric undermines public trust and emboldens those who attack journalists. Observers note that criticism is healthy in a democracy, but the context of government-led messaging can blur lines between debate and intimidation.
Montaño argues that the president’s remarks about corruption do not help the profession and instead contribute to stigma around the press. Ortiz insists the remarks risk politicizing reporting and protecting aggressors. Valdez argues that the stance has amplified the threat landscape by signaling tolerance for attacks against media workers.
The consequences extend beyond individual harm. Families of victims struggle with slow or inadequate compensation, and journalists under threat find it harder to secure support from outlets, especially freelancers. The protection mechanism launched by the government a year ago has been criticized for inefficiency. Ortiz recalls using a panic button that failed to deliver timely police assistance, underscoring the perceived gap between policy and on-the-ground safety.
Re-victimization
Re-victimization remains common. Threatened reporters lose work opportunities as outlets hesitate to hire them, and freelancers face difficulties selling stories. A Sinaloa-based journalist, who lost employment due to pressure from drug networks, describes the chilling effect of such retaliation. This climate pushes whistleblowers toward self-censorship, with many wondering whether continuing in the field is worth the risk. Some say censorship becomes the only viable option when survival seems precarious and integrity feels endangered.
The broader impact is a quiet erasure of information from the public sphere. The profession grows more cautious, the pace of reporting slows, and audiences miss crucial coverage of crime, corruption, and governance. Amid gloom, some still speak of a country of striking beauty, while acknowledging a social disease that tolerates violence and undermines justice. The current reality, many say, is a press landscape in distress and under siege.