Tláhuac: The Stops of Horror in the CJNG’s Favorite Neighborhood

The most prominent house on Simón Álvarez Street—in the heart of the La Conchita neighborhood—was number 47: a two-story building that, for a long time, served as the operations hub for the local mafia boss, Felipe de Jesús Pérez Luna—alias “El Ojos”—the leader and founder of the Tláhuac Cartel.

It is nearly midnight, and I stand before that very house—the one that once housed a bogus law firm. From there, El Ojos and his accomplices controlled the operations of the criminal enterprise that devoured the eastern sector of Mexico City; it was there that they ordered assassinations, orchestrated kidnappings, distributed drugs, and paid out the payroll that fed hundreds of families.

“They also organized *posadas* and Children’s Day festivals, and gave away stoves every May 10th. And most importantly: this is where they handed out the bicycle taxis to those who were out of work. They would station them outside the Nopalera station [on Metro Line 12] and put them to work as lookouts and dealers of crystal meth, says my companion, Sebastián—a neighborhood native—who is taking me on a motorcycle tour through the streets and alleyways that, tonight, remain impassable to outsiders.

This operations center became so significant that, on July 20, 2017—right there in the courtyard—Navy personnel caught *El Ojos* by surprise during a lightning-fast raid and shot him dead as he attempted to start his car to flee from the Armed Forces. Seven of his subordinates died alongside him. If any house were ever fit for inclusion in a National Defense gallery, it would be this one in Tláhuac.

Nine years have passed since that operation—which triggered the first “narco-blockade” in Mexico City, when the capo’s followers shut down Tláhuac Avenue using stolen and torched vehicles upon learning that their leader had been killed—and yet, although at first glance it appears to be the same neighborhood, everything has changed.

Beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, the house number is barely visible. This is no longer the most important house on the block. That “distinction” was snatched away by a nondescript building near the corner of Adolfo Unga—just a few meters from the spot where the leader of the Tláhuac Cartel fell. There, next to a flapping political campaign banner, sits a drug-dealing spot that has just opened and will close at dawn. “It’s the spot for the new ‘big shots,’” says my companion, who has just turned twenty-five. He shows me a small bag of marijuana bearing four initials. “Now it belongs to the Jalisco Cartel. This neighborhood has new owners.”

A ‘Tour’ of La Conchita and Its Stops of Horror

Touring the neighborhood at night is better, he says, because it makes for an easier escape—should anyone spot him with a stranger clinging tightly to his waist: namely, me. The lookouts for the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG), he explains, can identify locals from outsiders simply by their build—even if their faces are obscured by a tinted helmet visor.

Sebastián explains—in a tone almost like that of a schoolteacher—that just as it is nearly impossible to escape the influence of the Sinaloa Cartel in Culiacán, the same holds true in Tláhuac: many of the people you went to school with in the area, or the neighbors on your street, know someone involved in “the game.” They may not share blood ties or strong bonds, but they certainly know who’s who. And the code of neighborliness demands silence. These unwritten rules have permeated his life since childhood.

My companion insists that he never actually belonged to the Tláhuac Cartel—though, from time to time, he did them certain unspeakable favors. The line is thin—and at times invisible—for someone like him, who knew *El Ojos’s* son on a dusty neighborhood soccer field and his daughter at teenage parties. Thanks to this, he has been a privileged witness to the changes in that part of Mexico City.

As a teenager, he watched as the Tláhuac Cartel displaced the criminal families of old—those who had arrived in the capital’s eastern districts while fleeing a city center devastated by the 1985 earthquake. For decades, these families were the face of organized crime in the area, until, around 2012, they were devoured by the Tláhuac Cartel—an offshoot of the *Mano con Ojos* Cartel, which had itself splintered off from the Beltrán Leyva brothers, mortal enemies of *El Chapo* Guzmán and *El Mayo* Zambada.

Under the leadership of *El Ojos*, the Tláhuac Cartel was ruthless. It recruited the old-guard drug dealers; those who refused to fall in line were forced to leave the neighborhood or were murdered. It monopolized entire streets, bought people’s loyalty, and put public officials on its payroll. And, in a region impoverished and neglected by investments centered in the heart of the city, it provided jobs.

“The *delegación* [now a borough hall] belonged to them. *El Ojos* installed his entire family there. Aunts, uncles, nephews—his whole crew was everywhere,” recounts Sebastián. Later, I would look up information on this on my computer and find a report from *MILENIO* detailing how, following *El Ojos*’s death, the now-defunct Legislative Assembly demanded the removal of the borough chief, Rigoberto Salgado; lawmakers accused him of being both a relative and an accomplice of the local cartel leader.

The “tour” through La Conchita and its surroundings consists solely of stops marked by horror. Over here, they killed a marijuana dealer; over there, they dumped the body of a middle school student. This is the house of a family whose home was riddled with gunfire; that is the corner where they kidnapped the daughter of a merchant who refused to pay protection money. These are the waypoints of a silent war unfolding in the eastern sector of Mexico City.

“And look, if I had to pinpoint the exact spot where it all began, it would be right here,” says Sebastián, who—without dismounting his motorcycle—points toward another dark street in the area: Langosta Street, in the Del Mar neighborhood of Tláhuac, known as one of the areas hardest hit during the 2017 earthquake.

“It was here, back in 2021, that they nabbed *Don Goyo* [Gregorio Sandoval]—the guy who stepped in to replace the boss and helped *El Ojos*’s family keep the business running. With him gone, the place was left leaderless, and *El Mencho*’s people started moving in… may he rest in peace,” says Sebastián in a serious tone, without a hint of irony. “And even though *El Mencho* is no longer around, his people are still here.”

Tláhuac’s Open Wounds and the Missing

The eastern side of the city is an ungovernable monster. Security reports accessed by DOMINGA reveal that, every day, a silent struggle for territory and its illicit markets takes place among at least sixteen criminal groups. Since 2021, the largest of these has been the CJNG, followed by others such as the Sinaloa Cartel, La Nueva Familia Michoacana, La Unión Tepito, El Tren de Aragua, and other less sophisticated—yet extremely violent—local gangs, including Los Macarios, Los Gastón, Los Balta, Los Molina, Los Rodolfos, and others.

The streets—where some seven million people live and coexist, a population equal to that of a small Central American nation—are a contested battleground. The sheer population density is one draw; the inaccessibility of its streets is another. And among the most prized assets is the difficulty authorities face in keeping a watchful eye on the region’s peripheral zones—areas such as Las Lagunas in Havana.

In this open-air expanse, situated on the border between Chalco and Xico, collectives of mothers and fathers searching for their missing loved ones—including *Una Luz en el Camino*, *Hasta Encontrarles CDMX*, and *Mariposas Buscando Corazones*—along with independent families, have uncovered 1,527 sets of skeletal remains in recent weeks. It is a location notoriously difficult for patrol cars to reach; to get there, one must walk through flower greenhouses that seem to make a futile attempt to beautify this macabre place.

“That entire zone is full of bodies. This is the war right here—in the East. Just so no one can claim the war is confined to Sinaloa or the North. The exact same thing is happening right here in the capital,” says Sebastián, as he gulps down an energy drink. “And if you head over to the Tláhuac Forest, it’s the same story: nothing but dead bodies—people who refused to fall in line with the new cartel,” he asserts. As we navigate the streets on his motorcycle, he recounts the open wounds of a city that typically appears only in official police bulletins: when “Don Goyo” fell, other leaders within the Tláhuac Cartel crumbled alongside him—figures like “El Cano,” “La Morsa,” “El Papirrín,” “El Tomás,” and a host of other aliases known only to the locals.

With those leadership voids created, the CJNG swept into Tláhuac, encountering little resistance, he recalls. They deployed the same tactics as their rivals to seize control of the streets: they co-opted drug dealers, police officers, and local business owners. They offered loans, seasonal gifts, and legal services—provided by cartel-funded lawyers—to resolve residents’ legal troubles; they even carried out land invasions—such as the takeover of the Tempiluli site—to provide makeshift housing for their most loyal followers.

The leadership of the Jalisco faction, he says, became a mere dominion in July 2024, when the last major leader—who, by then, was no longer from the Pérez Luna family—fell due to an anonymous tip made by members of the Jalisco group themselves to the capital’s police force: Azael Cano, *El Payo*, was arrested in the Iztapalapa borough while attempting to return to Tláhuac to fight for the territory he had left. “By 2024, this place had fallen under the control of ‘the four letters,’” Sebastián tells me between quick stops at traffic lights. His account aligns with the years of the CJNG’s greatest expansion: with the Sinaloa Cartel fragmented and *La Unión Tepito* embroiled in its own war against the *Fuerza Anti-Unión*, the Pacific-based cartel seized eastern Mexico City—their new stronghold—taking over the very streets we are now speeding through to avoid detection.

Tláhuac is teeming with lookouts, day and night.

Our motorcycle tour lasts barely an hour. Any longer, Sebastián asserts, would be suicide; he insists on drawing comparisons to Culiacán: the neighborhood is teeming with *halcones*—lookouts—day and night, disguised as motorcycle taxi drivers, beer vendors at corner stores, and police officers. At the slightest hint of suspicion, barricades go up—a display of mafia pride reminiscent of the *narcobloqueos* (drug-related roadblocks) of 2017.

“Everything here moves with the mafia’s permission,” he says, extending his arm. “*They*” grant the stamp of approval for neighborhood savings circles, home renovations, patron saint festivals, and street closures for the setup of *sonideros* (mobile DJ sound systems). “Only two things don’t pay taxes here: births and funerals. Aside from that, everyone…”

As we zigzag through La Conchita, we also catch a glimpse of the neighborhood’s other face—one that suffered through the most recent earthquake to strike *Chilango* territory, yet rebuilt itself with dignity. It is the face inhabited by those who arrive home late at night after a long day’s work, refusing to hold out their hands when the cartel offers its handouts; the face of people striving to erase the stigma of violence that has long plagued this eastern district. “We also have artist collectives here—some really cool graffiti writers, and kids who are great at sports. It’s not all bad around here. The thing is, when a cartel moves into your neighborhood, it changes everything,” says Sebastián, just before we reach our final—yet also our very first—stop.

We are back in front of 47 Simón Álvarez Street: the home of the capo who lost his power. And just a few meters away stand the CJNG’s new drug dens. One by one, dealers and users approach the spot, knock on the door, and slip away under the cover of a burnt-out streetlamp. The criminal economy is just beginning its workday, and it’s best we get out of here.

“Next time, don’t bother going to Jalisco,” Sebastián says by way of farewell. “You’re better off taking a stroll through Tláhuac.”

Source: Milenio