They’re Everywhere! The CIA, the Villain of the Moment on Social Media in Mexico

In Mexico, one no longer needs to see a man clad in a trench coat—carrying a black briefcase and wearing dark sunglasses—standing in front of an embassy to suspect he is a CIA agent. Now, all it takes is a highway accident in Chihuahua, a raid on a clandestine drug lab, the extraction of Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada, or a flurry of social media chatter for the “digital village” to raise an eyebrow and say: “Aha—the Yankee agency is sticking its nose in again.”

An analysis by MilenIA—the Data and Artificial Intelligence Hub of Multimedios—reveals that the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency has become the *de rigueur* international villain in Mexican digital discourse: 97 percent of users speak negatively about the CIA, while only 3 percent express positive sentiments.

In other words, if the agency was aiming for discretion, it ended up starring in a popular theatrical farce where everyone pelts it with tomatoes.

Of course, this animosity is nothing new; it had merely been lying dormant for a while. Popular sentiment against the agency has historically surged in waves. For instance, in the 1970s, the ousting of Salvador Allende and the 1973 Chilean coup reinforced—among the Left, students, journalists, and nationalist sectors—the notion that the CIA served as the clandestine arm of U.S. interventionism in Latin America.

The “dirty wars” of the 1980s in Central America were perceived by Mexican public opinion as theaters of conflict where Washington financed, armed, or shielded anti-communist forces in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras.

And finally, the Iran-Contra scandal served to fully cement the image of a CIA willing to operate outside the bounds of the law in order to prop up Nicaraguan counter-revolutionaries. But the ultimate breaking point in our country came with the assassination of journalist Manuel Buendía in 1984: his investigative reporting on the links between intelligence services, drug trafficking, the far right, and operations in Central America led broad segments of society to view his death as part of a shadowy web where the Mexican State, organized crime, and U.S. interests converged.

Today, that entire history rises from the muck to come collect its debts. And the word cloud in cyberspace leaves little room for tenderness: “Chihuahua,” “agent,” “operation,” “governor,” “Mexico,” “government,” “narco,” “security,” “presence,” “sovereignty,” “CIA,” “FBI.”

This reveals an emotional dossier. Users are not merely debating a police incident; rather, they are processing a national suspicion—the notion that the United States operates within Mexican territory with far too much ease, in the shadows, and with precious few explanations.

The conversation is angry, paranoid, mocking, and legalistic.

The Chihuahua case reignited that perception. The deaths of two alleged U.S. intelligence agents—following their participation in an operation against a drug lab—placed Governor Maru Campos at the center of an uncomfortable narrative: What were they doing there? Who authorized them? What did the state government know? What did the federal government know?

One did not have to look far back to recall the extradition to the United States of the top capo, Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada—an event that fueled the Mexican fantasy—not necessarily unfounded—that drug lords, agents, governments, and case files all travel through different tunnels, yet lead to the same quagmire.

And amidst the generalizations of the “digital village,” the CIA is no longer merely an agency, but a universal explanation. If something smells fishy, ​​it was the CIA. If something doesn’t add up, it was the CIA. If someone escaped, fell, surfaced, or vanished—just check their passport.

Emojis complete the emotional portrait. Warning signs, red crosses, symbols of the scales of justice, cautionary alerts, mocking faces, and prohibition signs all make an appearance. Within this symbology, the scales demand accountability; the red cross cancels or dismisses; the warning sign sets off sirens; and laughter turns scandal into a meme. Mexico is suspicious—but with a heavy dose of irony. The conversation is angry, yet also paranoid, mocking, and steeped in legalistic rhetoric.

Thus, the real takeaway isn’t simply that the CIA elicits rejection. In Mexico, that is practically a historical tradition. What is new is the intensity: a 97 percent negative sentiment rating in a digital conversation speaks not merely of simple antipathy, but of a widespread perception of threat. The agency emerges as a symbol of espionage, intervention, violated sovereignty, and secret pacts among elites.

And yes, the word “sovereignty” does surface in this digital cloud. It doesn’t dominate the conversation, but it imbues it with political significance. Users don’t merely say, “They are spying on us”; they issue a graver warning: “They are intervening in our affairs.” At that point, the issue ceases to be a matter of police work and transforms into a discussion of power: who gives the orders, who grants authorization, who is in the loop, and who plays dumb.

Fundamentally, the CIA serves as a mirror reflecting a deeper, more profound mistrust. Mexicans don’t place their full trust in Washington, but neither do they place it fully in their own governments. That is why the anger is scattered like confetti: directed against the U.S. agency, against local authorities, against opaque operations, against tepid official statements, and against that national habit of only learning about grave matters after lives have already been lost.

Digital conversation doesn’t prove conspiracies, but it does reveal a certain atmosphere—one thick with suspicion. The CIA, which should be an invisible presence, has suddenly become the protagonist in a movie where everyone knows someone is listening from behind the wall.

Chihuahua is the freshest setting, yes, but Buendía and El Mayo Zambada are the old and recent precedents. Social media only offers the current emotional verdict.

Thus, for Mexico, the agency is no longer just in Langley, Virginia. It’s on the highway, in the clandestine lab, in the court file, in the morning press conference, in the meme, in the emoji. Come on, it’s everywhere.

Source: Milenio