I Couldn't Even Imagine That They Would Kill Us

by John Gibler

  This book is an oral history of one night: a night of state terror. For the first edition, published in Mexico, in Spanish, in April 2016, I did not write an essay to accompany the oral history. I wanted my listening to act as accompaniment. I hoped that readers would do something similar: accompany, listen to the stories shared here, stories that describe a night of chaos and horror, erratic communications, confusion, shock and disbelief. For the English translation I have included this short prologue and an afterword providing some historical and political context on the region, the school, and the students’ particular mode of organizing (including the “commandeering” of commercial buses, a practice mostly, if bitterly, tolerated by the bus companies and drivers), and discussion of the aftermath of the attacks, particularly the legal and administrative continuation of the atrocity.

  Before the police attacks in Iguala, inspired by the Zapatista idea of “to lead by obeying” or “mandar obedeciendo” and reflecting upon years of reporting on social struggles and state violence, I had begun to ask myself questions like these: What would it mean to write by listening, to escribir escuchando? What form would a writing that listens take? What would a politics of listening entail? I held these questions to myself as I began to work. The book you now hold in your hands is an attempt to write by listening.

  An Oral History of Infamy

  CARLOS MARTÍNEZ, 21, SOPHOMORE. I’m from a municipality in the region of the Costa Grande in Guerrero that is similar to Tixtla. It’s a very pretty place, with rivers and lakes. Starting some time ago it began to urbanize, which has led to some problems. But even so, the essence of the place and the people remains. I’m the second of three siblings. I have an older sister and a younger sister. I am the middle child. I live with my mother. My father left years ago, so, it was really quite difficult to aspire to a different career.

  I started working afternoons when I was in junior high school. I started working first at a mechanic’s shop, then a hardware store, and then a taco stand. I did all that to try and support my studies, since it was hard on my mother, alone, having to provide for three kids. After much work, I was able to get a scholarship to study in Acapulco after finishing high school. I stayed there for a year studying accounting, but it was very expensive. I had to pay for inscription fees, books, rent, food, public transit, school projects, and all sorts of things. It was too much to cover with just the scholarship. After a while, I heard about the school here, Ayotzinapa, and I came here. I came hoping to be able to study, which is what I’ve always wanted.

  I have a compañero, a friend who studied here and is now a teacher. I met him when I was working for a time in Atoyac de Álvarez. I met him there and he told me about this school, about it being a boarding school, about the classes, the cultural and athletic clubs, a bunch of things. But in the end what really grabbed my attention was that the school is truly free: a school where you can really study and follow your path, that is free. That struck me, and that’s why I came here.

  SANTIAGO FLORES, 24, FRESHMAN. Many of my friends said that we should all go to study in Acapulco or at the college for physical education teachers in Michoacán. But I wasn’t really into that idea because it’s hard for me to be far from home. A cousin of mine graduated from here and said that I should come here, that all the expenses are covered—the school covers everything—and for that reason, really, the economics, that’s why I came.

  JORGE HERNÁNDEZ ESPINOSA, 20, FRESHMAN. My brother graduated from the college here in 2011. He came in 2007 without knowing anything about this place or what he was getting into. He had heard that there is a teachers college, a boarding college, near Chilpancingo, it’s called Ayotzinapa; all you have to do is take an exam, pass it, and pass a trial week and that’s it. That’s all he knew, so he arrived here without a clue. He passed the trial week, and he graduated. He told me: “I want you to go study there.”

  To begin with, we didn’t have money. My father had abandoned us. We are five children, four brothers and one sister. My brother was in his last year [at the college] when my father left us. My mother took care of us. One of my brothers and my sister were in high school with me. One of my brothers was in junior high, and my other brother is both hearing- and speech-impaired and wasn’t in school. So my older brother graduated from Ayotzinapa.

  “If you want to study,” he said to me, “you don’t really have a choice, go there, you’ll learn a lot.” And he explained to me more or less how things operate at the college.

  “Sure, I’ll go,” I said to him. I didn’t think twice about it. I arrived here at the college and in all honesty I felt strange, uncomfortable for having left my family. I wasn’t used to leaving my house for any length of time. I didn’t know anyone at the school. I arrived without knowing anything or anyone. I said to myself, “This is so I can get ahead,” so that one day my family can say, “I’m proud of you for what you have achieved. Big or small, what you have achieved is important.”

  JUAN PÉREZ, 25, FRESHMAN. The majority of students here are the sons of campesinos. Where I come from we only have an elementary school, a middle school, and a high school. We don’t have any other options for study or pursuing a career, my small town is a bit more fucked-over than other places. I decided to come to this school, to study, to be someone, to go back to my town and be a teacher there, and give classes to the kids. Since in my town we all speak Me’phaa, we want a teacher who speaks Me’phaa. That’s the vision I have for myself.

  COYUCO BARRIENTOS, 21, FRESHMAN. My father separated from my mother when I was about five years old. We lived in the mountains. But my mom, my sister, and I went to live with my grandparents then, nearer to the town center. My mom would leave us to go to work. We would stay with my grandmother, because my grandfather worked all day too, coming back at night, or if not, at the end of the week. So I became quite independent. By the time I came here, I wasn’t speaking to my father, it had been some time since we fought. Before coming here I had thought about joining the marines to pay for my studies and support my family. But it didn’t work out. I was almost accepted and at that point didn’t have any other options. I had studied tourism in Acapulco, but without any support. Around that time I had fought with my mom and my sister and was on my own. I had to work. I stopped studying and my cousin told me that if I wanted, I should come study here, that there was nothing else that could help me.

  And so this became . . . like a light of hope, because I wanted to keep studying. I didn’t want to get stuck just working, so I took his advice. And it turned out that my cousin—he’s from Zihuatanejo, Daniel Solís—also was going to come take the entrance exam. So we arranged to meet up and we came. Before that, I took any job I could find. I helped my uncles to repair and clean refrigerators, washing machines, air conditioners. I made very little, but enough to get by. After that I went to look for more work and found an automobile body and paint shop. I showed up there knowing nothing, but started to learn just by watching. I got the hang of it quickly. The boss began to trust me and to give me jobs, simple ones that I could handle. And I told him that I needed to work to put together enough money to come and take the entrance exam. I needed to pay the travel costs and have something for whatever I’d need here. He understood and gave me a hand. I worked with him for about a month and a half, up until the day when I had to come here.

  ANDRÉS HERNÁNDEZ, 21, FRESHMAN. I have a goal, which is to become a teacher, an educator. I came here with that objective, to go back and give classes in my community, which is quite remote, a community of about 200 people. The teachers who sometimes go there, I don’t know if it’s because of the heat or the food, but they leave after only a little while. They don’t even last half a year before requesting a change. That’s why I came here. I’m here with that goal: to be able to go back to my community and give classes, to be an educator there.

  EDGAR ANDRÉS VARGAS, 20, JUNIOR. When we were in our third year of high school a number of kids started talking about where they wanted
to study. The only teachers college that we had heard of was Tenería, in the State of Mexico. But my cousin, Óliver, told me that there was a teachers college like Tenería in Guerrero. But to tell you the truth, I was never inspired to go to a teachers college. My cousin told me that his uncle studied at the teachers college in Guerrero and that it was good. So he said we should go, he was trying to convince me, but I didn’t really want to, in all honesty. He went to the school to begin the admissions process and told me all about it, that I should apply as well. On the very last day I made up my mind. I left my town around two in the morning. I went with my father, because the school is quite far away. My cousin told me more or less how to get there.

  I started the admissions process on the last day. I was one of the very last to apply. I walked around the college and I started to like it. I’m really close to my cousin; we’ve been friends since elementary school and we were excited to take the exam. Once I saw the place, the murals and everything, I was more interested and decided to take the exam.

  JOSÉ ARMANDO, 20, FRESHMAN. This is the reason we come study at Ayotzinapa: because we are the sons of campesinos. We don’t have the resources to study at another school. And this school is committed to social struggle; it’s a school where we learn the values to keep fighting and create a better future, to support our families. And what does the government do? It kills students.

  MIGUEL ALCOCER, 20, FRESHMAN. I came, really, due to a lack of money. I stopped studying for two years for that same reason: I didn’t have any money. I wanted to keep studying but my parents didn’t have more money to give me and there weren’t any savings. I already knew about this school and wanted to come, but it wasn’t until 2014 that I made up my mind. So I told my parents that I was going to come, and they said okay. You know, it was the only option, economically, because here you don’t pay anything for food or lodging. Here the school provides everything, and that’s why I wanted to come here.

  JORGE HERNÁNDEZ ESPINOSA, 20, FRESHMAN. At the beginning, during the trial week, honestly, we didn’t like it. We asked ourselves: “Why do they do this to us if we just want to study?” But truthfully, during that experience you start to value certain things. You learn to appreciate everything from your family, meals, your compañeros, your friends, everything, everything. Because you hit a point where you get tired and say to yourself, “I can’t do this anymore; I’m going home.” But then you say, “I’ll get home and what will I tell my parents? Here I am, I couldn’t do it; I gave up, I couldn’t pass the trial week?” And that’s how you find courage inside yourself, and you think about your family and think: “I don’t want to let my family down; I want to make them proud; I want to go home and be able to tell them: I made it.”

  It’s really true, the trial week is hard. We work; they make us do all the work of a campesino, because we are campesinos. But, for example, the work that a campesino does in a month, we do that in a week. We multiply the work.

  There are times when we don’t drink water, when we don’t eat. It’s true and it’s hard. But at the same time, once you’ve been there at the college for two or three days during the trial week, you say to yourself: “I made it two days, just five more to go. I’m going to stick it out.” And you do.

  SANTIAGO FLORES, 24, FRESHMAN. The trial week is tough. It was really kind of grueling. But, you know, that’s how it is here, that’s how they do it every year. They have you doing exercise, doing farm work, clearing brush and weeds from the fields, going out to help los tíos in their fields. It’s pretty exhausting, and only those who make it through the trial week get admitted. We helped each other out, though. If some of us couldn’t run anymore, the organizers would encourage us.

  “Help each other out,” they would say, “help each other; never leave a compa alone, no one should ever get left behind; when you’re finished running, there should be no one left behind.”

  If one of us couldn’t go on, we all had to stop and wait, or try to help him out by carrying him, but no one could be left on their own. That’s where we start building a sense of being compañeros within the group, always staying together, never leaving anyone behind, helping each other out. That’s where the compañerismo begins. We make deep friendships during the trial week. We become best friends during that experience with compañeros we didn’t know before.

  EDGAR ANDRÉS VARGAS, 20, JUNIOR. On the first day they took us all into the auditorium. The students from the committee welcomed us, more or less, told us some stuff and then let us out early. We went to rest. Around four in the morning some of the students from the sports club showed up kicking our doors, shouting. In that situation, you wake up in a flash. They told us to be out on the soccer field in five minutes, or like two minutes. Since we had heard a bit about the trial week, we had an idea of what was about to happen. They made us do exercises and then run. They took us running. This was kind of complicated for me since I used to have asthma and always used an inhaler. I still was afraid I’d have an asthma attack, that’s why I hardly ever played soccer anymore. But in that moment we all took off running. And they had us chanting. Truth be told, it was tiring running up stairs, doing all that exercise, I wasn’t really used to all that. They made us run all through Tixtla. We went almost as far as the OXXO convenience store at the edge of town, and then they brought us back, running. They gave us a few minutes to rest and then, around eight or nine, they took us out to do shifts as lookouts, to sweep the school grounds, to clear weeds with a machete and all that.

  The hard thing was that they didn’t give us any water to drink. There was very little water, and they didn’t give us water to drink. So, to be out there cutting weeds with a machete, thirsty, you get exhausted. But I didn’t give up. And then the meals were just some tortillas and a tiny spoonful of beans. Tough luck. You were hungry and you had to eat it and you couldn’t ask for more, because if you did they would fill every inch of your plate with beans, they’d give you bread and tortillas, but a lot of them, and you had to eat it all. So you had to settle for what they gave you. I think they gave us breakfast around ten or eleven and then a few minutes to rest, and then back to work: work, work, work. Then it wasn’t until around four or five that they fed us again. And those were the only two meals. They talked to us about the college, about its creation and everything, and then around eight at night they took us to the study groups and gave us political orientation. They talked about the essence of the teachers colleges, the founding of the teachers colleges, about the social movements there have been in the country, and about the bad governments.

  Sometimes they showed us videos, films, but always related to, you could say, left politics. We would get out of there really late, around two or three in the morning. I remember that twice they took me out of the movies because I had fallen asleep. That was during the last days of the trial week. The students’ committee took me out of the movie because I had fallen asleep and they made me do exercises there in front of the auditorium. The first time they made me exercise, they told me to climb up all these stairs to see what was written on a cross. It was night. I didn’t go all the way, because I saw another guy coming down, I think they sent him up there to do the same thing, and so I just asked him what was written on the cross and then we sat there talking for a bit. Then we went back and they asked us what was written on the cross, we told them, and they sent us back into the auditorium until the study group was over.

  The other time they took me out was also because I had fallen asleep; I was so tired I just couldn’t stay awake. But that time they made me eat an onion. They asked you if you wanted an apple or a pear. I remember that I said an apple and the apple was an onion, the pear was a habanero chili pepper. I chose the apple. And they told me I had to eat it, and I ate it. Afterward I couldn’t sleep. The smell was everywhere. It made your eyes cry. I had that taste in my mouth for three or four days.

  And I made my way through the trial week. It was tough. A bunch of applicants couldn’t take the exhaustion
or the hunger, and they left. Once they took us out to cut all the weeds from the cornfields. We went in a bus and got off on the shoulder of the highway and had to climb up the mountain. We arrived around noon I think, and in the sun began to cut the weeds. By around two, I couldn’t stand the thirst. I was so thirsty, my whole body felt weak. When I went to the trial week I didn’t take anything, just a couple of changes of clothes and a backpack. I didn’t take a blanket, just a towel. At night it would get cold and what I would do was lay out a change of clothes on the floor—the concrete floor would get really cold—and I’d lie down and cover myself with the towel. But after a while I struck up a friendship with the guy next to me: he had brought sheets and he shared his mattress with me.

  I made it through a lot. It was kind of messed up, because they would take us out to clear weeds when it was raining, with thunder, and they wouldn’t let us take cover. The trial week was tough, but I was able to make it through.

  ÓSCAR LÓPEZ HERNÁNDEZ, 18, FRESHMAN. In all honesty, they treated us pretty badly when we showed up here that first week. But even so, with what happened to us on the twenty-sixth, it all was useful. Here at the college, during trial week, they have us run, jump into the pool early in the morning, and that came in handy for real, because on the night of the twenty-sixth with the rain, me and several other compañeros spent some eight hours wet. And, yes, here at the college they do that to us, they make us jump in the pool and then go running all wet, and do exercise in the morning. And seriously, on that day, everything they had done to us during the trial week was really fucking useful because out there you really needed it, you had no idea where to run, and here at the college they had taught us to run and seek shelter, and to be in shape.