Original language: German
Imelda Marrufo is a cheerful woman. Sometimes her laughter seems defiant—as if it were ringing out in spite of the circumstances, the outrageous injustices, the violence, and death. Even when she talks about the murders of women and girls in her hometown of Ciudad Juárez, there’s still room for a laugh: “We’re so strong! That’s why we don’t let the fact that the murders continue get us down.”
“We”—that’s the women Imelda Marrufo works with in the organization “Red Mesa de Mujeres.” They advocate for women’s rights, equality, and an end to violence against women. This “we” is important to Imelda Marrufo; it’s part of her philosophy—she rarely speaks only of herself. And for women like Imelda, this “we” also serves as a shield in the border city ravaged by crime and violence—violence that is often directed at women simply because they are women.
Imelda Marrufo and her work can only be understood against the backdrop of her hometown: Ciudad Juárez is a hot and dusty desert city right on the border with the U.S. state of Texas. The sun beats down so fiercely that it’s only thanks to the air conditioning in Imelda’s office that one can think clearly. Imelda loves Ciudad Juárez. The city expanded haphazardly, as a chaotic cluster of settlements that happened to spring up in this spot in the inhospitable desert; today it has 1.3 million residents. A hub for human traffickers, a magnet for drug lords and criminals of all kinds, a soulless transit city where many never intended to stay but got stuck and now toil for starvation wages in the low-wage factories, the “maquiladoras.” Ciudad Juárez has nothing beautiful to offer, no sights that Imelda could show visitors. All that can be seen, from everywhere, is the glittering skyline of El Paso, its Texan sister city on the U.S. side of the Rio Grande, which is called the Rio Bravo here.
Imelda Marrufo often travels to other Mexican cities, representing “Red Mesa de Mujeres,” of which she is the founder and president. And every time, she delights in the fresh air, the lush greenery, and the many trees. But she always looks forward to returning to Ciudad Juárez. To the city with its slums, which spread like cancerous tumors in every direction; with a red-light district where seven-year-old girls are forced into prostitution in broad daylight; with deserted entertainment districts, and bars and clubs that are gaping with emptiness because no “gringo”— no Americans—come across the border to party anymore—out of fear of the violence. The many bullet holes in the walls of the houses bear witness to the drug war, which has raged more fiercely here than in any other Mexican city. Just a few months ago, Ciudad Juárez was more dangerous than Iraq, reaching its lowest point in 2010, when about 3,100 people were murdered. The government sent in soldiers to end the fighting between two rival drug cartels—but they only fueled it further. Now, slightly fewer people are dying in the drug war because one cartel has defeated the other. This once again draws attention to this city’s greatest shame: the murders of women and girls.
Since the 1990s, women and girls in Ciudad Juárez have been disappearing without a trace. Often, their bones are not found until years later, somewhere in the desert outside the city. Others remain missing forever.
In 2001, lawyer, feminist, and human rights activist Imelda Marrufo founded “Red Mesa de Mujeres,” a network of women’s organizations that helps the victims’ families and demands investigations. Because no one else is doing it. The state cares neither for the victims nor for the perpetrators. In Mexico, the rule of law means that 98 percent of crimes are never solved. “La impunidad”—impunity—is, for human rights activists like Imelda Marrufo, a core problem in Mexican society, a key concept. Like her, the murdered women and girls came from humble backgrounds. Most lived in the typical gray, unplastered little houses that make up the poor neighborhoods. Their relatives have no connections to those in power, no money, and thus no access to the weak legal system, which is riddled with corruption.
Women and girls have been brutally murdered for two decades now. Imelda Marrufo has known their stories from the very beginning. When the first girls’ bodies were found in a dry ditch among trash, she was 18 years old and a law student. She devoured everything in the newspapers about that case. “Even today, that image still causes a kind of short circuit in my mind. I had never heard of or seen anything so cruel before.” The girls had been tortured before their deaths. Their killers had torn out their nipples. Imelda was shocked, but not afraid—not even when more cases came to light.
But the young woman became more cautious as she made her way through the city. When she came home from the university late at night, she organized groups with other women so that no one would have to walk alone. Back then, at the beginning of her studies, Imelda had no idea that she would later become an expert on the subject and work full-time helping the families of dead or missing girls and women. That was in 1993, when the killings had only just begun and the people of Ciudad Juárez still hoped the nightmare would end quickly and the perpetrators would be caught.
But just as in hundreds of similar cases in the years that followed, the killers were never identified. Only a few insignificant henchmen ended up in court; the masterminds, however—believed to be linked to organized crime—remain unidentified to this day. In this climate of impunity, the killers can rage unchecked: They abduct their victims on their way to school or from work in one of the “maquiladoras,” threaten and blackmail them, force them into prostitution, or make them sell drugs in the run-down downtown area of Ciudad Juárez, reports Imelda Marrufo. Once they have outlived their usefulness, they are often tortured to death and dumped in the desert like trash. Many are also raped and killed on the spot. For a long time now, the lawyer Marrufo has been calling for this type of femicide to be recognized as a separate criminal offense in her state of Chihuahua.
These cases have defined the daily work of human rights activist Marrufo ever since she founded “Red Mesa de Mujeres” in 2001. That’s nearly 13 years of ever-present death. And something that is even more unbearable for many of those affected, Marrufo explains, is the agonizing uncertainty about the fate of their loved ones. Parents of missing girls are constantly reaching out to “Red Mesa de Mujeres.” President Marrufo knows all these people personally. Even though her main task is to represent the organization, engage in lobbying and campaigning, raise funds, and maintain contacts with government institutions—the victims of violence and their stories are still very close to her heart.
Take the story of Norma Laguna, whose beautiful daughter Idaly vanished without a trace on her way home. “Red Mesa de Mujeres” helped in the search for the 19-year-old, and Imelda personally supported Norma, especially after a visit from the police: One day, several pickup trucks pulled up without warning in front of the humble little house; armed officers jumped out, knocked on the door, and brusquely delivered the news to the mother—who had been searching in vain for years—that DNA analysis had unequivocally identified Idaly. The bones of at least 16 women had been found in the desert.
Norma Laguna, who has suffered from depression since her daughter’s disappearance, completely broke down. She lost what little will to live she had left and for a long time was barely able to care for herself or her seven children.
“Our work isn’t just about the justice we seek for the victims or about political strategies,” says Imelda Marrufo. The health and well-being of the relatives are also a priority. Imelda and her colleagues helped the woman through her crisis. Norma Laguna simply refuses to believe the DNA analysis results provided by the authorities, who had left her to fend for herself in her search for her daughter. She trusts only Imelda Marrufo of “Red Mesa de Mujeres.”
Marrufo was also deeply moved by the case of a couple she is friends with, whose daughter disappeared on her way home from college. When she talks about it, she can’t hold back her tears. For years, she supported the parents in their search, spoke with authorities, knocked on doors, endured rejection, and never gave up. Photos of the girl hang all over the city—alongside those of countless other missing people. Only recently did the parents learn that their daughter’s bones had also been found in the desert.
Violence against women is commonplace in Ciudad Juárez. This includes domestic violence as well as the invisible violence that doesn’t involve physical blows or murder. Imelda Marrufo explains that this city is home to a particularly macho society, where men alone make the decisions and women submit to them. Even she herself—a feisty, self-assured feminist—sometimes feels discriminated against. For example, when public safety is debated and local politicians invite only two representatives from civil society to participate in the discussion—men who, moreover, are influential business leaders. She is disappointed that, after so many years of dedicated work bridging the gap between politics and civil society, she is still being excluded. It is not easy for Imelda Marrufo to understand this, because her way of thinking and acting is different—she calls it “feminist.”
Marrufo is convinced that it’s always worth involving as many interest groups as possible and talking to everyone in order to reach agreements: “My calling is to speak out, never to be silenced—at any time.” Exchanging ideas with others—including other civil society organizations—is like a “boost of strength,” Imelda says. Because communicating with others comes easily to her, she can call out problems and inspire others with her ideas. Perhaps that’s what makes her the “brilliant networker” she’s often called. She holds meetings, tweets, sets up appointments, posts on Facebook, provides information, and gives speeches—her cell phone battery runs out quickly.
But Imelda’s own energy seems to be inexhaustible, which is another reason why “Red Mesa de Mujeres” is the go-to organization in Ciudad Juárez when it comes to human rights issues and violence against women.
For example, media representatives from all over the world turn to the organization and its president, Marrufo, who has already given countless interviews. Without “Red Mesa de Mujeres,” without this collective strength, the cases of femicides would not have become so widely known worldwide. Here, they are meticulously documented, while they go unnoticed by government agencies. Imelda and her colleagues examine each case closely and investigate whether it involved gender-based violence, while the police and prosecutors are quick to label the deaths of women as part of the “drug war” and are either unwilling or unable to make the effort to clarify the exact circumstances. The organization takes on tasks that should be the state’s responsibility, which initially led authorities to feel threatened by the women. “It took them some time to understand that our criticism is helpful to them,” explains Imelda Marrufo, laughing her defiant laugh: “Now they even treat us a little more warmly.”
If it weren’t for the work of “Red Mesa de Mujeres,” Hollywood wouldn’t have taken notice of the murders of women; films like “Bordertown” starring Jennifer López wouldn’t have been made; and numerous novelists wouldn’t have tackled the subject, such as Roberto Bolaño in *2666*, and tried to explain what is happening here. Imelda Marrufo, however, neither watches these films nor reads the novels, because, she says, none of that helps her cause. Besides, she knows the cases and their tragedy all too well. She knows full well that the murders are not an isolated phenomenon, limited to this grim city in the north, but that women in other regions of Mexico are also subjected to extremely brutal violence.
But the world is watching Ciudad Juárez because a coalition of women’s organizations has been tirelessly and loudly sounding the alarm—with Imelda Marrufo at the helm. How has she endured this, confronted with death and despair for years? Imelda Marrufo has a simple formula for this: “Never alone, only in a group.” There it is again—that important “we.” When a fellow activist is struggling or running on empty, the group catches her. Imelda says of herself that she avoids whining and complaining, but instead always asks herself: What comes of this? What can be done? That is what drives her. She has already come a long way this way. If there is even a trace of fear in this strong, passionate woman, it has little opportunity to show itself.
And yet fear would be justified, as several female activists have been murdered in recent years. But Imelda Marrufo won’t let anything or anyone intimidate her. The authorities in her city realized this some time ago: In 2002, the government of the state of Chihuahua, where Ciudad Juárez is located, attempted to weaken the then-fledgling organization “Red Mesa de Mujeres” and pit its members against one another. But Imelda successfully fended off the attacks and brought all the doubters back on board.
She’d like to see more groups in the city—more women standing up against violence and discrimination—so that the network can continue to grow. Her big dream is a school for women in the city’s poorest neighborhood. A school where they can learn about their rights and how to defend themselves. So that someday there will be more feminists “who are just as proud as I am to call themselves that.” And then it rings out again: that hearty Imelda laugh that comes from deep within.