The most common symptom of narco-violence is found on the streets of Culiacán. By day, the capital is a landscape of shuttered metal storefronts and “For Rent” signs. Businesses close their doors, never to reopen. By night, the city belongs to checkpoints, arson attacks, and gunfights that enforce a *de facto* curfew.
The only ones raising their voices are the victims—business owners, lawyers, and members of Sinaloan civil society—who view the accusations brought by the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York against Rubén Rocha Moya and his inner circle as the culmination of a tragedy they had denounced for years in isolation; a reality they attempted to bring before the Mexican justice system, only to meet with total failure.
In an interview with *MILENIO*, Sinaloan activists are unequivocal: they had issued warnings as early as two years ago, following the surrender of Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada. They even went so far as to appear before the Public Prosecutor’s Office to report the fabrication of evidence and the obstruction of justice.
Meanwhile, within the state, the number of murdered and disappeared persons continued to rise—silently, and through official inaction. It is a situation they themselves describe as a “narco-pandemic.”
They Seek Not Culprits, But Fragments of Life
“Well, this is Sinaloa… look, welcome to *our* Sinaloa,” says María Isabel with bitter irony, speaking from an unauthorized dump site in Mocorito where she is searching for human remains—whether those of her son, Josimar, or of any of the more than five thousand people who have gone missing in the state over the last two years.
She has never ceased to assert that “the voices of the people of Sinaloa were simply never meant to be heard.” She has become an authoritative voice for the pain of mothers victimized by a war—mothers who, for nine years, alongside her collective *Sabuesos Guerreras* (Warrior Hounds), have taken upon themselves the work that rightfully belongs to the authorities: searching for the disappeared. “With (Rubén) Rocha or without him, territorial control remains in the same hands. It was necessary for this to come to light. But it changes nothing; we do not know if the political climate to come will bring change—because right now, this is a war; the political shifts that do occur are merely internal reshufflings among the same players.”
Complaints Ignored by Prosecutors’ Offices
What constitutes a criminal case file in the United States today was also formally reported within Mexican territory in February of this year.
Presidents of legal bar associations and professional organizations had already warned both the Attorney General’s Office (FGR) and the Specialized Prosecutor’s Office for Organized Crime (FEMDO) regarding an institutional charade designed to cover up the collusion between the state government and criminal factions surrounding the murder of Héctor Melesio Cuén.
In their formal complaint, they highlight the contradictions between the State Prosecutor’s Office’s official narrative—which attributed Cuén’s death to an attempted robbery—and the statements made by “El Mayo.”
They identify as probable culprits Rocha Moya; his Secretary General of Government, Enrique Inzunza Cázarez—whom they describe as the governor’s “enforcer”; former prosecutor Sara Bruna Quiñones, now designated a fugitive from justice; and another former prosecutor, Juan José Ríos Estavillo—who, according to the complaint, was forced to step down from his post.
According to Ricardo Beltrán Verduzco, National President of the Mexican Alliance of Lawyers, Rocha Moya handed over the institutions to organized crime while the city was being turned into a battlefield.
“Here are the consequences of having sold one’s soul to the devil. We filed a formal complaint regarding organized crime and other offenses; we struggled greatly just to get them to accept it. They kept us there for three hours—analyzing it, discussing it—until, finally, they were compelled to accept it.
“They forwarded it to a specialized unit—one dealing with terrorism, arms stockpiling, and various other matters bearing the bombastic names agencies tend to assign to such things. An investigation was supposedly initiated—an investigation we never actually saw.”
Inzunza Nepotism in the Judiciary: Nothing New
The governor’s departure—along with allegations leveled against a senator—has exposed a system that allowed nepotism to flourish within the courts for years; now, all eyes are fixed directly on the so-called “Inzunza Clan.”
Miguel Ángel Murillo Sánchez is a political activist, the legal representative of the Sinaloa Civic Front, and a former independent candidate. In 2024, he gathered signatures to force a vote on whether Governor Rubén Rocha Moya should be removed from office; however, the recall mechanism did not apply to Rocha’s administration, as the law establishing it was new and non-retroactive.
During an interview, Murillo alleged that Senator Enrique Inzunza—widely regarded as Rocha’s right-hand man and a key figure in this intricate web—has woven a network of nepotism spanning various institutions. His daughter, Aitana, serves as the Coordinator of Advisors for the Morena party in the Senate, while his wife, Claudia Yuridia Meza Avendaño, serves as the Presiding Magistrate of the Third Civil, Commercial, and Family Chamber.
His sisters—Aida, an electoral magistrate, and Lorena, a judge in the Third Civil Court—along with his brother, Javier, who serves as a Secretary of Agreements, occupy key positions within the state judiciary.
His nieces and nephews were not left out either: Iliana Guadalupe Cázares Rodríguez directs a regional branch of the Center for Alternative Dispute Resolution Mechanisms; Emilio Cázares Valdez serves as a unit chief within the Chief Administrative Office; Diana Elide Iribe Cázares presides over cases in Mocorito; and his cousin, Yarely Lizeth Valdez Inzunza, oversees case monitoring in the central-northern region of the state.
All of them, activists allege, are cogs in a single machine—one that has transformed the administration of justice into an apparatus serving the interests of those in power. “Today, we want a house-cleaning at the Supreme Court of Justice of Sinaloa,” says Murillo. “You cannot have a brother identified by the U.S. State Department as a drug trafficker, only to find that your sister, your wife, and your brothers are judges or magistrates.
“The legal profession is dead; now, what counts is being a relative of the Inzanzas or the Cázares.”
Police Corruption
Lucía Mimiaga—President of the SEA’s Citizen Participation Committee and a human rights activist—explains the structural opacity and lack of clear financial accountability that enabled the looting and violence. She highlights a specific area of concern that, she argues, has been consistently overlooked: the police forces themselves.
Through the work of journalists and non-governmental organizations, Mimiaga asserts, years of documentation in Sinaloa have exposed alleged collusion between organized crime and key government structures—specifically, the municipal and state police forces.
“We activists have raised our voices. We have held marches, demonstrations, and public appeals. We have gone to Congress to demand greater transparency, accountability, justice, and peace within the state.”
“The Governor Arrived with the Cartel’s Support,” Accuses Sinaloa Native
Miguel Taniyama greets visitors from his restaurant in Culiacán. He does not hide. He has spoken out, he has received threats, yet he remains right where he is—calm and self-assured, with the confidence of a man who knows he has the gang on his side.
He is involved in politics, yet he holds no formal membership in any political party. He describes himself as an entrepreneur, a private citizen, and an activist. He aspires to become mayor—and in Sinaloa, such an ambition amounts to nothing less than a declaration of war.
He has met with representatives from both the PRI and the PAN, yet he remains unconvinced by either. He doesn’t want to align himself with any party, he says. Just this week, he organized a *carne asada* (barbecue) outside City Hall to celebrate the fact that Mayor Juan de Dios Mendívil is finally out of office.
The ruling party loathes him; in true *narco* fashion, they deployed drones to drop leaflets featuring photographs of Sandra Ávila Beltrán over the opposition protest.
He offers a clear justification for his rejection of the party currently in power: over the last four years, he has been forced to close three of his business locations. He cites the violence, the pervasive insecurity, and the economic paralysis. Today, he prefers to invest his capital in Querétaro. “Sinaloa just can’t seem to recover,” he laments.
Taniyama is unequivocal: “This is the inevitable outcome of the last election,” he states. “When Governor Rocha took office, he did so openly—with the explicit support of the cartel. That is the reality of the situation. A formal complaint regarding this matter was duly filed.” For him, the error lay at the very source:
“The agreement should have been with the citizens—with society—and not with the cartel. Many of us asked at the time: ‘What is going to happen with this escalation of the cartel’s power?’”
He compares the two pandemics: “If the [COVID] pandemic was complex enough on its own, the ‘narco-pandemic’ is devastating. Devastating. It is hell itself for business owners, for families, and for the young people who had to put their lives on hold.”
The proof? The cartel’s implosion, he says, “was an internal affair—strictly between them. But while they were settling scores, ordinary citizens were the ones left to pick up the pieces.”
The question hangs in the air. “A candidate?” He hesitates. “Yes, I would take the plunge. I would do it for my city—running as an independent, without a political party.”
“We Are Still Standing”
Martha Reyes is a private citizen who owns businesses in the livestock sector and serves as the president of Coparmex in Sinaloa—making her one of the few voices to have openly challenged the current administration. For months, she has championed citizen-led marches for peace in a state where the prevailing mentality is: you are either with them or against them.
This week, she helped organize the very barbecue gathering where business leaders celebrated—albeit only for a few hours—the fact that certain government officials had taken a leave of absence.
During a meeting with the media, she declared: “We want no more deaths; we want no more car thefts; we want no more shuttered businesses. We want back the prosperity that was stolen from us. *That* is what we truly want.”
“What we want is for the Prosecutor’s Office to do its job—for the Secretariat of Economy, the Governor (Rubén Rocha), the Acting Governor (Yeraldine Bonilla), and President Claudia Sheinbaum to get to work *for us*, rather than merely defending a select few.”
For Martha, it is crucial to send a clear message to the public: “This serves as a reminder that we are still here; we are still standing.”
“Is this the end of the Morena political party in Sinaloa?” she is asked.
“That is something the citizens will decide,” she replies. “And I hope that every time they step into a voting booth, they carefully weigh the choice before them: are they risking the lives of their own children, or are they prioritizing the protection of a government official?”
“Will you be running for office?” they press her.
“I’m going to make their lives a living hell—they certainly wouldn’t want that. I have the drive and the determination, but I believe we need someone with a highly strategic mindset. It’s not that I consider myself any less capable—I know exactly who I am. It’s simply that there are new profiles emerging.”
“No Media Availability Scheduled”
MILENIO repeatedly requested interviews with both the state government and the Culiacán City Council in an effort to understand their official stance regarding the allegations.
Both administrations declined to comment. The office of the interim governor, Yeraldine Bonilla Valverde, offered only a terse written response: “No media availability is currently scheduled.”
Source: Milenio
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