Nicolás Pérez drives his pickup truck through the dimly lit streets of Silao, a municipality in Guanajuato, in the heart of Mexico. About five men are riding in the back with him. They are on a “spiritual mission,” they say, looking for people struggling with methamphetamine—or crystal meth—addiction in order to force them into treatment at their rehabilitation center.
The truck stops in front of an abandoned house. The men get out, slip under a fence, and enter the property. Seconds later, a shout is heard from the upper floor, and the tallest, burliest member of the group drags out a much smaller man who is pleading in vain. They intend to forcibly confine him at “La Sagrada Familia” (The Holy Family)—an “annex,” or rehab center, that Nicolás Pérez has been running in Silao for twenty years.
“What we do is based on trial and error,” says Pérez. “Maybe when he gets out, he’ll do it again [use drugs]. But we’ve played a part in extending his life a little bit. […] There’s a chance he might recover.”
La Sagrada Familia is an informal rehabilitation center—the kind that abounds in Mexico due to the lack of public treatment options for those struggling with drug addiction. These facilities have proliferated in this region as a response to the crisis fueled by the surge in methamphetamine sales and consumption—a trend driven by the conflict between the Santa Rosa de Lima Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) that has been raging there since at least 2015. Currently, there are at least 520 such centers in the state of Guanajuato alone and around 3,000 across Mexico; however, the lack of a formal registration system makes it impossible to determine the exact number.
These centers often face criticism for their aggressive methods and patient abuse, as well as for poor hygiene and a lack of qualified staff. Some have even been infiltrated by the very drug cartels responsible for rising addiction rates, prompting authorities in Guanajuato to attempt to shut them down. Yet, they also represent the only available help for many Mexican nationals battling severe addiction; consequently, some officials hope these facilities could be reformed into vital resources for addressing the epidemic.
State legislator Alejandro Arias has sought to advance legislation in Guanajuato aimed at regulating addiction recovery centers—known locally as *anexos*—to “truly rehabilitate those who enter them.” Placing these centers under the supervision of the local Health Secretariat could help address issues ranging from infrastructure deficiencies and inadequate nutrition to a lack of professional staff, overcrowding, the mistreatment of residents, and exorbitant fees, he asserts.
He also hopes that increased support will bolster the centers’ ability to fend off criminal gangs, which view these facilities as prime recruiting grounds for new drug users or cartel foot soldiers. “Organized crime has targeted our addicted youth as easy prey, using them as cannon fodder for their criminal activities,” he says. However, the initiative he spearheaded was rejected by the state legislature this year.
Mexico’s murder capital
Guanajuato holds the tragic distinction of having the highest homicide rate in Mexico. It was considered one of the country’s most prosperous and peaceful states until 2015, when the CJNG—one of the world’s most violent criminal organizations—expanded into the region and began clashing with local groups for control of illicit economies.
The cartel sought to seize control of lucrative fuel-theft networks—which siphoned oil from pipelines connected to the local refinery—that were then controlled by the Santa Rosa de Lima Cartel. Furthermore, Guanajuato’s geographic location, industrial corridors, and highway networks provide an ideal logistics hub for drug trafficking between Mexico and the United States.
The annual homicide count rose from 957 in 2015 to 2,539 in 2025. The actual homicide rate in Guanajuato is likely even higher; there are currently nearly 5,700 missing persons in the state, with approximately 870 having disappeared last year. To fund their war, these two cartels flooded working-class neighborhoods and factories with methamphetamine.
“We are beginning to see a reconfiguration in this area, which was previously considered a transit point” for drugs but is now “a key geographic location” for consumption within a growing market, says Hugo Córdoba, coordinator of the drug project at the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime.
Methamphetamine is a powerful synthetic stimulant often dubbed “poor man’s cocaine” due to its low production cost. For a fraction of the price, it can produce an effect up to ten times stronger than that of the white powder.
“I started using methamphetamine at work… at a car factory,” recounts El Bolas, a man currently undergoing treatment at the La Sagrada Familia rehabilitation center. “There’s a lot of methamphetamine there because the work is hard, especially at night.” He recounts buying the drug from coworkers who were also users and had started dealing to fund their own habits. “It escalated from there, to the point where I stopped going to work because I kept falling asleep. Then I changed jobs, but for a while, I was using crystal meth while driving, too. […] I had two or three accidents because of crystal meth.”
As drug use rose, so did the demand for low-cost rehabilitation centers. Local centers—known as *anexos*—that once housed ten or fifteen people became packed with up to a hundred, says David Saucedo, a Mexico-based security analyst. While a three-month stay at a high-end clinic can cost hundreds of thousands of pesos, the price at La Sagrada Familia is around 12,000 pesos for six months. “We serve the population where the problem is toughest: the poor,” says Nicolás Pérez.
Forced sobriety and discipline
Many of the people held in these rehab centers—known locally as *anexos*—are there against their will. After picking people up off the street, Nicolás Pérez’s team typically calls 911 to report the individual’s identity and location, aiming to avoid “committing a crime, like kidnapping,” as he puts it. In other instances, desperate family members pay these centers to forcibly remove and treat their loved ones. Often, these families are driven to action by chronic methamphetamine use, which causes their loved ones to exhibit unbearable behaviors: severe paranoia, extreme sleep deprivation, hallucinations, and psychosis.
Methamphetamine is notorious for being one of the hardest drugs to quit, yet Pérez believes that treatment in centers like his can provide a cure. Given the clandestine and unregulated nature of this system, there are no statistics regarding treatment success rates. “We have great faith that what we do can save someone, because a miracle happened for me,” says Pérez, who is himself in recovery for alcoholism after years of sobriety.
This is common among the center’s staff. The five men assisting Pérez on this recent night mission are also in rehab; in fact, they are residents of *La Sagrada Familia*, living there either full-time or under a work-release arrangement. They recognize some of the men they will detain on this January night in 2026 because they once partied together for days on end, using methamphetamine.
The reception area of *La Sagrada Familia*—located in a two-story house—is equipped with handcuffs and a first-aid kit containing sedatives to subdue the most uncooperative residents. Those nearing the end of their stay act as guards, preventing newcomers from escaping.
Pérez recalls a time he nearly lost an eye after being stabbed by a young man who had been admitted at his family’s request. Tonight, however, everything is proceeding calmly. The first man detained prefers to go elsewhere—to a specialized center for the homeless that he is already familiar with. The other two begin their stay at La Sagrada Familia without much protest, even when they are forcibly washed down with a hose. They will remain there for at least six months, sharing quarters with fifty other people.
Those who enter voluntarily or are brought by their families pay between 1,600 and 2,000 pesos a month, but Pérez states that he also accepts those who cannot pay. “Our program is 100% spiritual,” he asserts.
The treatment model at La Sagrada Familia is typical of an *anexo*—an informal rehabilitation center—enforcing sobriety and discipline alongside the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step program. Several times a day, residents gather to share their experiences, receiving applause or judgment from others who understand their pain. One resident, nicknamed “El Trailero” (The Trucker), recounts how methamphetamine use initially helped him stay awake during long hauls between the Guanajuato municipalities of Cuerámaro and Abasolo, and during his solitary time behind the wheel. However, insomnia and hallucinations soon caused him serious problems.
Some health professionals criticize these centers for entrusting the recovery of severe addictions to unqualified peers rather than medical professionals. A 2020 report by the National Human Rights Commission revealed poor sanitary conditions and a lack of qualified staff, as well as allegations of forced confinement, physical abuse, threats, and mistreatment. Even the United Rehabilitation Centers of the Bajío (CRUB)—a network of over 180 such centers in Guanajuato—has reported abuses against residents that have resulted in deaths. Pérez is the president of CRUB, and at his facility, La Sagrada Familia, there are no signs of physical violence. Nevertheless, the discipline is strict.
Upon waking, those who slept in the central courtyard put away their mattresses and sweep and mop the floor. After breakfast, the atmosphere relaxes. A veteran resident shaves the newcomers. Others cook for the house, preparing chicken soup and stews with ingredients purchased by those permitted to leave, using money received from family members and donations from neighbors.
A critical juncture in the bloody cartel war
The vulnerability of these rehabilitation centers to cartels was exposed in 2020 at another facility in Guanajuato, the site of one of the worst massacres in the state’s history. Alejandra—whose surname is withheld for safety reasons—was a resident at *Buscando el Camino a mi Recuperación* (Seeking the Path to My Recovery) in Irapuato when armed men burst in and rounded up the male residents on the second floor.
“I never imagined they were going to kill them. They shot them all in the head,” she recounts. “When they shot the guy by the door, blood splattered on me, and a shell casing landed in my hand.” After escaping with a friend, she called her mother, who initially thought she had made up an excuse to run away. Then, news of the mass shooting hit the headlines. By the time Alejandra fled, twenty-seven people had been killed and several others wounded.
The scale of the violence drew attention to these rehabilitation centers and their questionable practices, as well as to Mexico’s failure to provide public addiction treatment. Lacking oversight and regulation, the centers became targets for the cartels. The mass shooting highlighted how the CJNG had begun using these Guanajuato facilities as hideouts, drug distribution hubs, and sites for recruiting or training young people, according to security analyst David Saucedo; he estimates that a third of the centers in Guanajuato could be under CJNG control.
Both the CJNG and its rival, the Santa Rosa de Lima Cartel, were already slaughtering anyone suspected of selling the other group’s product. When local groups discovered that the CJNG was taking over the rehabilitation centers, they launched attacks. “The Jalisco Cartel is trying to shield and defend its rehab centers, while the Santa Rosa Cartel is trying to wipe them out […]. That is the current situation; it is a war over the rehab centers,” says Saucedo.
Following the 2020 massacre in Irapuato, Guanajuato state police and health inspectors responded with raids and the closure of at least 49 rehab centers due to a lack of proper permits and other regulatory shortcomings. But far from quelling the violence, the move intensified it. Dozens of these facilities continued to operate in secret, and the raids left drug users stranded on the streets in desperation. They had been stripped of their safety net, however imperfect it may have been. Meanwhile, the cartels began to fight even more aggressively over the remaining centers that authorities had overlooked.
“There was a time when—without knowing this would happen—we carried out operations where we [shut down the centers],” explained a high-ranking Irapuato official who spoke on condition of anonymity. “The stance was: these centers cannot exist. And then, criminal incidents spiked.”
Now, some local officials are taking a different approach: working to improve the centers.
More cartel threats
The Irapuato official states that the rise in crime sparked a more collaborative relationship between the *anexos* (addiction recovery centers) and the authorities. The municipality is working with them to ensure compliance with local regulations, such as public safety and land-use codes.
Some Guanajuato officials also see progress regarding the crisis. Mauro González, Guanajuato’s Secretary of Security and Peace, states that authorities seized 4.5 million doses of crystal methamphetamine between February 2025 and February 2026. He also highlights a 64% reduction in intentional homicide victims recorded in the state over the past year.
Even so, Guanajuato remains the state with the highest number of murders in the country, and the *anexos* continue to be targets. In January 2026, two people were killed when one center, Los Marginados, was riddled with gunfire. At another nearby facility, truck hijackers were captured after using the center as a hideout. At a meeting of a dozen *anexo* directors held in Irapuato—which we attended earlier this year—the main topic of discussion was the threats they face from cartels.
Not all *anexos* are attacked because of links to drug traffickers, they claim. Some are targeted for refusing to carry out illicit activities for the cartels, others out of revenge by former residents who were mistreated, and still others for having admitted—sometimes unknowingly—a member of a rival cartel. During their meeting, the directors debated whether to report such incidents to the authorities, given the risk that cartels might view them as police collaborators and intensify their attacks. Some directors of these recovery centers—known locally as *anexos*—and state officials have also been pushing for their official legalization, arguing that government oversight would improve safety and prevent them from becoming strongholds for cartels. However, in March, the Guanajuato State Legislature rejected a bill to regulate them. “They rejected it with arguments such as it encroached on the federal jurisdiction of the Ministry of Health, and in other sections, they claimed the legislation we had proposed was over-regulating the sector,” states state legislator Alejandro Arias.
Nevertheless, he points out that precedents exist elsewhere in the country, noting that centers in Mexico City and Chihuahua are registered with local health authorities and undergo periodic inspections. Other states, such as Jalisco, have passed local regulations for these centers that haven’t yet been formally implemented.
Arias states that he plans to reintroduce the bill, “correcting some of the aspects that […] were flawed.” However, he is concerned about a certain reluctance to regulate these facilities, as “doing so entails budgetary, medical, and care-related obligations that the State might not wish to assume.” At a meeting of facility directors held in Irapuato, it became clear that many are not motivated solely by financial gain, as some critics claim. They view themselves as part of a social response to the addiction crisis and intend to press on undeterred.
“We have been practically abandoned, and that is what leaves those of us in this line of work feeling so powerless,” said one of the directors, before exclaiming: “If they’re going to come and take away what I’ve built just to hand it over to those bastards, they might as well kill me!”
Source: Milenio
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