Diana Washington Valdez blog: Drug corruption at the U.S. border

Diana Washington Valdez blog: Drug corruption at the U.S. border: Reprinted with permission from the El Paso Times (Kelly McKenzie, Web Master) Whistle-blowers allege corruption, cartel ties By Diana Wa...

Introduction

This blog is an exciting new forum for me to interact with my readers. As a self-published author my intent is to discuss and expound on my books, my life, and about the world around us. Real soon I hope to have my new website up and running, where I’ll post short-stories and essays, so as to give people a better understanding of who I am. I know that some writers enjoy discussing private moments in their forums, but I can’t promise too much of that─I’m a very private person. That being said, writing is very important to me. I dabble in essays and short -stories, but for me, a novel is the quintessential expression of humanity’s interaction with itself. The characters are people we know, people who have helped us to better know ourselves. If you don’t already know─then you will when you sample my writing─I write about organized crime, corruption, and man’s darker side. maybe we share some of the same opinions or fundamental beliefs, have held the same victories or pains, and maybe we laugh about the same things. I’m looking forward to reader participation, as I hope to bring you opinions, views, and feelings into my work as I continue to grow as a writer.

What I care about most: Humanity. It might seem overly general. Maybe people would expect me to say to family, or friends, or if they’ve read my work─wealth or power. I admit, my subject matter is dark. But only because I am one who has literally had to walk through the darkness to find the light. I’ve spent a lot of time around suffering─poverty, drug and alcohol addictions, victims of violence, child neglect and abuse─and the general indifference that surrounds so much of it. I’ve seen and lived with these problems throughout the United States, and Mexico, and it has turned my way of thinking upside down so many times that I feel I’ve had to literally reinvent myself more than once just to cope with the magnitude by which so many suffer. Like many, for a time, I was indifferent to the many facets of human suffering. But as it so often happens, the universe shifted and I was no longer holding a winning hand. In what felt like waking to a horrid nightmare I lost a wife and daughter─my life at the time─in an instant. An event that forever altered the trajectory of my life. The wealth, the power, and the persona that had occupied such a high pedestal in my life became as meaningless to me as life itself. Finding the motivation to continue onward became as onerous as breathing through a coffee straw. I suddenly realized that I wasn’t better than anyone else; fundamentally, I was as vulnerable to life’s vicissitudes as the next; maybe more so. My loss, however, served a greater purpose─if there is such a thing. Everyone’s life has tough moments. But the happiness we experience and share in overcoming these moments far outweighs the pain, the sorrow, and the worry. I have learned to be uplifted by my failures, as much, if not more, than by my triumphs. Some would call it fruitless and baneful to have spent so much time contemplating what is no longer and forever past. I disagree. We can surely move on, but it is futile to believe that we can ever truly forget. The past has led us to the present moment, and will always be an unrelenting reminder of where and who we have been. Both the past and the present serve as stepping-stones to our futures; one is the beacon that warns while the other is the rudder that guides. Together they ensure our continual forward progress. Without one or the other we would merely be adrift in the sea of life, shipwrecked without hope of rescue.

As many of you are undoubtably aware, there are few things harder than losing a loved one─much less two. My loss, however, has opened my eyes to an inexplicable truth: like death, loss is part of life. Adversity has become a good friend. One who has taught me the value of humility, and the joy of compassion.

I live a very secluded life. By immersing myself in my subject matter I hope to bring authenticity to my writing. Doing so is dangerous, I realize, but it’s what I hope will set me apart from others in my genre. Which is partly why I’ve chosen the avenue of self-publication over a large publishing house. Publicity tours, book signing sessions, or any public exposure would be counterintuitive to my agenda as a writer. I interact with dangerous people, people who trust me, and though my writing might very well incite them to treat me differently, I continue to strive onward. I hope that as my readers you will understand and appreciate this.

Fighting a Losing Battle

This morning in the barrio of San Ángel I stood by and watched as police and forensic experts snapped photos of three bodies left dead—presumably dumped—on an otherwise normal residential street. A few residents, like me, are curious, but most just go about their business as if nothing had happened. And for my part I wasn’t so much curious as I was pensive and contemplative over why this city—Mexico City—and country has become so violent...so bloody.

From where I stood, digital recorder in hand, about twenty meters from the bodies I observed how young the three male subjects appeared. I guessed between seventeen and twenty. Next I wondered who was going to miss them. Which mother, sister or spouse was about to have their day and lives permanently altered by the phone call or visit they were about to receive? If I were the police officer how would I feel to be charged with such a responsibility? I’ve seen bodies before on the street; I’ve seen a man given a lobotomy with a .45 caliber hand gun; I’ve had dinner with someone one day, and the next learned that they’d been killed. This was not my first experience with death. But this time, for some reason, I felt angered by how these deaths were just going to be used by the government and media to further accuse organized crime and narcotics trafficking as the responsible parties. Last week I attended a press conference given by President Calderón, where he reiterated that the war against organized crime was going to be won. What a fool. Am I the only one who sees the absurd futility in fighting a war that can’t be won? And to think that I actually voted for such a man.

People have told me that I’m sympathetic to criminals, and most of the time I don’t even bother trying to defend myself. In fact, one of my current projects, which was what I went back to thining about as the officers continued to snap photos of the bodies, is titled: The Cartel. And I got to thinking about the backgrounds to some of the characters, and I hope that I’m able to depict the motivating factors that lead these young men to join the ranks of the Mafia. There is nothing glamorous about it. Maybe I’m a fool for thinking so, but I believe that with understanding comes appreciation. There is honor in keeping someone great alive. How we define “great” is up to us. But personally, I’ve yet to know a great man who blindly accepted the Commandments of another 

Conversation with a Nazi

Since childhood I’ve only heard Hitler and his Nazi regime referred to anytime someone did something horrendous. I’ve read Anne Frank’s Diary, and A Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl. I’ve read the American Version of who Hitler was, and though I took away the fact that he committed genocide, I never fully understood his motives. Who was the man with the god-awful mustache and his incessant need to hail with his arm and hand pointed out like an arrow? Questions that i might never have sought to answer had life not put one of his followers in my path.

In 2008 I met Orin, a Nazi, who redefined my perception of the National Socialist German Workers Party (Nazis). Time and circumstances has made us friends, even if our views don’t coincide in every way. The following dialogue—one of many—has led me to question the history I was taught.

Sitting at a popular bar in Rio de Janeiro, the humid, sugar and spice infused air made me thirsty as I waited for my friend to arrive. I hadn’t spoken to Orin in Several months, and I wasn’t too surprised by his tardiness. The laid back lifestyle of Brazil had long ago given him a different perception of time. But when he walked in he stood out like an American in China. His blue eyes, fair skin, and unfortunate bald head made me laugh just seeing him.

I had sent him a message, saying that I would be in the area, and that I wanted to base one of my supporting characters in my upcoming novels, Broken Oaths, on him. To do so, effectively, I needed to better understand his association with Nazism, so as to better define his fictional double. You see, this man is no hate monger, he seems to get along with everyone...basically he doesn’t fit into the Nazi stereotypes that years of Western indoctrination have taught me.

“Orin, my friend, good of you to make it,” I said as he slid into the barstool at my right. He was dressed in dark slacks and a white dress shirt—an outright contradiction to the sand and surf no more tan forty meter from where we sat. “I though you might’ve mistaken the day.”

“Gin and Tonic,” he said to the bright-eyed black woman who came to take his order. Then to me he slapped me on the back of my neck; a greeting I hated, which he knew, but I think we both appreciated the spite. “I said I’d be here.”

“You also said you planned to be in Ireland by this time of year,” I pointed out. 

“Yeah well, probably next year.”

I smiled, having a good idea of what might have kept him from traveling the Atlantic. “What’s her name?”

Orin laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah.”

“Later...your message said that you wanted to know about Nazism. Why?”

“I’m putting you in my next novel,” I reminded. He raised an eyebrow as I adjusted the digital recorder sitting between us like a third party. “With or without your permission, so I figured you might want to have some input!”

“Okay, what is it you wanna know?”

“I guess, why are you a Nazi...I mean, you’re living now in this cornucopia society of sorts and I don’t perceive you as being a rascist, or else we probably wouldn’t be friends.”

“I am a racist, and so are you, and so are most people.” I took a sip of my iced tea, so as to try and wash down the stiffness of his words. “It’s perfectly natural to prefer being around people who look like you.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t say I’m a rascist.”

“Oh no? Why then did you choose to make Mexico your home over say Arizona or New York, other places you’ve lived?”

“Because—”

“Because you prefer the Spanish/Mexican culture over the British/American culture.” he interrupted. “You prefer speaking Spanish over English...you prefer the latino races over the Anglo race, right?”

“That’s true enough. But I don’t hate other races. I wouldn’t try to extinguish another race just because I ‘prefer’ one culture over another.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Orin warned. “You might do any number of things given the right circumstances. Never say never.

So you’re saying that Hitler was forced by circumstance to do what he did?” I preferred.

“In the early 1920s Hitler was the seventh inductee in the N.S.D.A.P (National Socialist german Workers Party). History followed. He quickly rose to leadership, was persecuted, sent to prison, released, elected chancellor, abolished parliament, and instituted national socialism. ‘Nazi’ was actually a derogatory term coined by Western media, [but] they never called themselves that. I’m not suggesting you not use it. Of course, you want to use language your readers understand.

“N.S. is a political orientation. In the sense that democracy, communism, fascism is a political outlook. It’s the political and economical structure of the nation. In the personal it’s an outlook on life. Just [as] the Red Communist defines himself as such, so does a N.S. It is not distinctly German or even European. Put together, those two words (National Socialism) attract quite a bit of hostility than the singular aspects which can be found all over the world. Nationalism and Socialism can be found within different types of government, amongst different cultures and people, everywhere. After all, the nature of government is that the many are led by the few. You can’t paint that picture in very many varying ways.

“German N.S. was very ethnocentric, but all the true nationalism is (i.e. Irish, Chinese, Mexican, etc.) and is indifferent to so-called borders or man-made lines in the dirt. The intent in Germany at that time was to create a homogeneous homeland where german culture, language and ethnicity could propagate under the N.S. institution—eventually encompassing all of Europe and [its] folk. All of Europe.”

When he came up for a breath I said, “The Spaniards, upon arriving in New Spain weren’t too thrilled by the idea of mixing their blood with the natives.

 They made slaves out of many of them...”

They killed many of them,” Orin pointed out. “And if right now we were in the 16th century, in Mexico, you would be a second-rate citizen.”

“Probably so, I admitted. “But the way, when I think Nazi, I think German. But I’ve heard you tell me before that you’re Irish. You mentioned, that German National Socialism was striving for a ‘homogeneous homeland where German culture, language, and ethnicity could propagate...’ And yet, I’ve read that there were many Dutch, more than any other nationality, who joined the German’s.”

Orin’s head twitched several times in its usual and disconcerting way. “You’re right about the Dutch. More Dutchmen per capita joined the Germans than any other nationality. They had their own division—SS Nordland.”

“So obviously this wasn’t just about Germans, but rather a European stock,” I said.

“In a way,” Orin replied. “I say I’m Irish because much of my family comes from that island. I have the look and mannerism ❲s❳ of those people, the language and culture speaks to my heart like no other, but I’m as much ‘Irish’ as you are Spanish or Aztec or Toltec, or the dozens of other tribes of folk who genetically make up the Mexican people. There are very few people on the earth who aren’t a genetic cauldron of different tribes (and those unique examples are a few tribes on this continent to our west who have been isolated throughout history).

“Europeans have a common origin and this is the same for the linguistics and culture. English is a Germanic language. The word itself: English—Anglo, comes from Angles, a tribe of Germans invading across the channel in the 5th century. French was first German Franks, and Scots were of the Irish Scott. Europe is and always has been just a hotchpotch of Aryan clans vying against one another for living space. I can trace myself to all parts of it. Mostly Ireland, but also Scotland, England, Wales, Germany, Holland, Sweden...that I’ve heard of.”

“Israel,” I added with a smirk, as I signaled to the bartender for a refill.

“I’m sure there’s Jewish back there as well. many Europeans do, as they were a common people throughout the continent, for centuries. Hitler was an example of this social flux. He was born in Austria but spoke German—culturally Germanic. The Jewish author Shirer speculates that he was part Jewish. That may be true, or propaganda; wouldn’t surprise me either way. Actually, the vast majority of Jewish people today are Eastern European converts, and have no ancestral relation to Hebrews.

“His [Hitler] aim was to create a N.S. Europe and in fact he had much support all over the occidental—in England and the U.S. His vision was homogeneous, but at the time his racialist views were hardly unique. At the time, complete segregation—well, economic and political segregation—were enforced in the United States [and Mexico]. Britain was still an empire that subjugated people all over the world. The Japanese were expanding their very hungry empire under the premise of their very brutal ideas of racial supremacy.

“is it true, I interrupted,” that Japan killed far more Chinese in World War II than Hitler, Jews?”

Orin nodded, sipping his second Grey Goose cocktail. “A fact little appreciated anywhere in the world.”

“Except maybe in China.”

“Exactly. You see, the political conflicts in Europe, at that time, had nothing to do with race—other than the age-old Jewish financing, and thus profiting of Europe’s fratricidal wars. Remember, Germany invaded both Denmark and Norway—both countries inhabited by people who are probably more ‘Aryan’ than Germans. All of his allies were people of various colors: Iran, Turkey, Japan, Italy, Spain, Peru, Argentina, to name a few. Most of latin America, Latin Europe, Africa, the middle East, and some of the Orient sympathized with the ‘Axis of Evil.’

“So, N.S. is ideology and outlook. It’s not something that is specifically German. All the emphasis was placed on Germany and the German people, as he believed Germany to be the ‘fatherland’ of European culture, but Aryan is a very brood anthropological term. Words like German, Irish, Caucasian, European don’t define a folk. Those are just derivatives of geographical place. While is a color—”

“It’s the absence of color, I think,” I quipped.

“Right. Aryan is genetic physiognomy. It is the DNA of one of the many sub-genus of humankind. And it is not about color. There are Aryans of light, medium, and dark skin complexions. There are Chinese ranging from yellowish skin to pure white. Negroes can range from [the] darkest black skin to brown, tan, and in some cases, pure white albino Negroes. Indians (or, as they were called in ancient times—Toltecs) can range from reddish skin, to tan white, to darkest black. Ideas, culture, history, or even politics shared by a German and Irishman [are] about the same as the relationships between the Navaho and Apache, the Nicaraguan and Honduran, the Kenyan and Tanzanian, or any other groups of people who share ethno-genetic dispositions.

“In Ireland politics has always been about anti-colonialism and Republicanism. They’ve lived in a bubble for so long—under the heel of British oppression—that I doubt many Irishman have ever given much consideration to the Aryan collective, or N.S. Though, Republican ideals are very nationalistic, and they are very socialistic. But rather than earn the world’s enmity for aggression they’ve earned our sympathy for their struggles to survive and persevere.

“ ‘Nazism’ today exist ❲s❳ in all parts of Europe—or rather, its ghosts. Most of the time it’s ignorant kids, feeling angry and alienated in over-populated societies, lacking any kind of purpose, direction or influence, and lashing out at immigrants. A lot of the time the Jewish media will create it. Some Frenchman will lose his job to a Pakistani immigrant, he spins out, and all over the papers he’s a ‘Nazi.’ But that scene is big in Russia, East Germany, France—not so much in Ireland, for previous stated reasons, but it’s there, especially in the north amongst loyalist kids who emulate English pop-culture. It’s big in England where it began. The whole working class, neo-nazi scene, started there. The skinhead thing, the music, all of that—English. Most of these kids can’t define the word or explain what N.S. is, but with the media’s help they equate it with their own xenophobia—which tends to be a natural human reaction to any migratory clash of culture and people.”

“Hence, that new law in Arizona, allowing police to racial profile,” I added.

“Precisely. Also, as I’ve mentioned before, much of the symbology that’s representative of Aryan culture has become synonymous with ‘Nazism,’ as well.

“But Hitler had a very extreme aversion, to put it lightly, to dealing with a migratory or cultural clash,” I said.

“True Hitler had a very controversial view on race. Inflammatory to many people today. But they were hardly unique at the time...but we tend to forget that in our judgements of history. Hitler and I have very different views of the world, as our experiences are extraordinarily different. Although, I take him at his word, I recall that he was speaking to an audience, speaking hyperbole to an impoverished, defeated, down-trodden people who needed someone to tell them they were the best at everything they did, and were capable of anything. Telling the Germans they were supermen certainly worked for him. In a few short years, he brought them out of the worst depression an occidental nation has ever seen, into one of the most efficient. Democratic ailments like homelessness, food shortages, unemployment, [and] welfare, were all non-existent.

“Also, the social world moves, with everything else, in cycles. The start of the 20th century saw the peak of the last era. One that gave Europeans [a] rise in global influence and power. It was normal for them to perceive that sense of self after their achievement of the previous several centuries. But, such racial arrogance is nothing new to history, nor is it unique to Europe or any other part of the Earth. It’s a universal trait if there ever was one.Ideas of ethnic-preservation are a product of a biological inferiority complex. Prior to the 20th century, when Europeans—or Aryans, rather—comprised nearly half the population of the planet you never heard of it, but it was a very common notion amongst all the dwindling sub-races. I think what made Hitlers ideas and concepts different from a myriad of other thinkers was he attacked with all his attention a very powerful and influential group, or tribe, of bankers and merchants...”

I didn’t tell him this at the time, though I imagine he’ll read this eventually, and either be annoyed or amused...His character in my upcoming novel Broken Oaths is that of a convict. Yes, the irony is thick.

Few things are more exciting, rewarding, and outright satisfying than seeing one's first novel in print. Today I held my book and reflected for a moment on the years it took to bring such a dream to fruition. To everyone who believed in me—my two mothers, Orin, Samantha, and Carlos—thank you. The path is still arduous, but at least we have the confidence of knowing it can be done.

Authority

My mothersent me a message recently in where she told me that people she knew were asking her about her son’s past. Because as I’ve chosen to write in my first novel about the Italian Mafia and Mexican drug cartel, people are curious to know what authenticates me as someone who can write on these topics. I presume the questions they want to ask—but are too polite to do so—whether or not I was a part of these organizations. My moter, being the sweetheart that she is, has never really asked to many questions about my past. When I told her in 2001 that I was moving to Mexico she was sad but supportive, and has continued to be so throughout the last ten years.

I was never a member of these organizations. However, in 1999 I worked as a financial advisor for a Wall Street firm. In such capacity I managed investment portfolios for any number of individuals and nonprofit organizations. Every broker/advisor has to choose a niche for his clients base, and I took a less orthodox path than most. As a financial advisor I followed the money in a different way than my colleagues. Like them I had corporate executive and entreprenuerial-clients, but one of my best friend’s father was a real live wiseguy from the Italaina Mafia. I had been introduced to the man before, and being as the man had alot of legitimate businesses and associates he was able to do wonders for my career. But this association did more than just provide me with referrals and increase my assets under management, it opened my eyes to the hypoerisy of “legitimate business.”

Two years later I decided to rtake my career to the urban metropolis of Mexico City. As a financial advisor with Wall Street experience I believed I would be successful in a societal climate where I wouldn’t be seen as a racial minority. Never had I imagined how difficult it would be to make professional acquantances amongst a population of twenty-plus million people. Competition in Mexico’s financial sector was fierce, and brokers bankers and advisors, much as myself, treated their clients like family. These were not bonds easily broken, being from Wall Street or Mars didn’t impress anyone. I was on the brink of failure when it occured to me that I needed to go back to the basics—follow the money. Instead of the multigenerational wealthy families that every other advisor was after I followed the illicit money. Andsurprisingly the contacts weren’t that difficult to make.

The country was teaming with multi-millionares who had made their money from illicit means. People who had legitimate businesses and alot of money to invest. As I had done in New York, I had found my niche.

These relationships, through professional in nature, opened my eyes to the realities not taught in textbooks. I began to ask myself all sorts of questions—one of which, what is a criminal?—and the answers I arrived at surprised me. If a criminal is someone who commits crime, and crime is something deemed illegal, and illegal is something determined by whoever has the power—given or taken—from the people, then I wasn’t so sure that the right people were going to prison. If Wall Street had taught me anything it was that wealth was a synonym for righteousness. Everyday I either saw, heard, or sensed something unethical or illegal—by any civilized standards—taking place around me. Presidents of publicly traded companies would whisper tips to their golf buddies—insider trading—who would then contact their brokers to capitalize on the tip. As brokers we said nothing; ultimately, were we not there to make money? Having changed my country code hadn’t altered this reality one bit.

Ban on Drugs

I had a discussion recently with the aide to a well known politician in Mexico City. The conversation was over drinks, and since I’m far from being a reporter, I’ll leave names out of it. Besides, what’s important is the content.

The political aide asked. “Tell me Mario, in what you write, fiction wise, you treat these cartels like bands of heroes, why is that?”

“I don’t think they’re heroes,” I said. “I just think that they aren’t the enemy that we should be fighting.”

This, of course was like lighting a fuse to a stick of dynamite. This political aide—who we’ll call Ruben lost his older brother to this incessant was against organized; his brother was a federal police officer. Maybe part of me wanted to light the fuse. Because I’m just as frustrated as anyone else by the seemingly unending violence throughout Mexico...and the world at large.

We both sipped our drinks in silence. A silence broken by me when I told him that I wasn’t trying to reopen a fresh wound. “I know your loss is recent. The last thing you wanna hear is that your big brother died in vain—”

“He didn’t,” Ruben said firmly.

“I know,” I said. My friend here is an avid weight lifter with about thirty-five kilos on me, easy. “You opened the door to this conversation, so hear me out.

“The government has essentially decided to wage war at the symptoms rather than the disease. You kill one drig trafficker and before his corpse is cold another has stepped into his place. On the off chance that the police arrest him, then parade him before the cameras, and even maybe get information from him, what has really been gained? More traffickers maybe arrested, turned, or killed, but so what? The cocaine still comes in, and the majority of it still makes it to the U.S. market. If not with one trafficker, then with another.”

Ruben signaled to the bartender for two more rounds. “We’re making the prison sentences harder, and the officers are a lot less hesitant to fire first and ask questions later.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You could bring back the firing squad and public hangings and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. A man who is desperate is not thinking about the consequences of what may or may not happen to him tomorrow or the next day. He’s living in the moment. Yesterday he might have been an upstanding citizen, but he was hungry, his clothing was secondhand, and his prospects for meeting a beautiful woman, or for helping his elderly mother with money were zero. Yesterday he was a victim. But today...”

“Today he’s a criminal,” Ruben finished emphatically for me.

“Why because he decided to do what everyone else has been doing for as long as history has recorded? Look around...this isn’t a society, this is a free for all. As a whole we’re pitted against one another by the power of the almighty dollar. We’re asked to play by the rules set in place by those in power, with money, those who aren’t hungry. No man worth his salt is going to play by those rules.”

“It’s called civilization—progress.”

“What civilization, what progress?” I asked, feeling my pores open up. “The fact that we have more technology andlive longer aren’t in themselves progress. We still control people, if not by the blade of a sword, than by the barrel of a gun; we still kill, torture, and abuse our fellow citizen.

“Most nations tout equally but in all actuality, what we have here is a modern form of slavery.” I stopped and thought for a moment. “I take that back, we have progressed. The Egyptians had to use whips and chains to build their temples and mine their gold.

In all our ‘progress’ we’ve figured out how to program man into being a slave while convinced that he’s free. The fact that someone pays them for their efforts doesn’t make them free, especially not when starvation and death are the only other options.”

“You’re taking this a little far—slavery?”

“Ever been to India?” I asked. He shook his head negatively.

“Well, a huge population;—mostly poor, uneducated, and without opportunity to progress living in a country rapidly expanding under a tech boom that had made way to a middle class. Which, of course, is touted as good news, without anyone stopping to question it. Yes, there is more money, more private property and more infrastructure development—more capitalism.”

“Exactly more jobs.”

“Yeah, the construction industry is one of India’s largest employers. The labor force is made up of migrants from the devastated agriculture sector, escaping poverty, disease, and death they find themselves forced into a labor economy that exploits them with unsfe working environments, horrible living conditions, and almost complete social exclusion. I’ve seen them, and I tell you—they’re slaves. Even children work on these construction sites. These people are seen as nothing more than an expendable resource, like trees to be cut down, or water or air to be polluted.”

Rueben took a deep sigh. I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t overly concerned with India’s poor when Mexico has more than it’s fair share. “This has what to do with narco trafficking?”

“Everything” I said, “because the wealthy in India are no different from the wealthy anywhere else in the world. If Mexico had the kind economic growth that I ndia or China has, the poor here would be exploited just the same. The poor understand this which is why your attempts at stopping them from trafficking the one product they have that Americans want is futile at best.”

“You’ve obviously never seen what cocaine, heroin, and all these other poisons do to people—to kids. You expect the governments of the world to just sit back let their populations destroy themselves from the indside out?”

“If that’s what a population wants to do, then they will do it with or without the approval of some bureaucrat who’s never tasted the bitternss of poverty. Nobody wants to live with someone else’s rules over their head. Nobody wants to live under the perpetual threat of ‘do this—or else.’ Besides, if someone is determined to destroy themselves so instead alleviate the pains of their reality, they will ultimately find a way to do so, whether it be through alcohol, prescription meds, or some other chemical equivalent waiting to be discovered. these rules, these laws, these futile attempts at controlling people doesn’t work. They don’t address wht people find themselves so dissatisfied with life that they find chemical stimulation to be the only answer available to them. Until you address that problem, all that’s going to be achieved with this war on drugs is more senseless killing.”

“Well, what is the problem?” Rueben asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“Everything,” I said. “Starting from our values and going up from there. We value money which translates into power...and power gives us freedom to do and live how we want. Just because someone is poor doesn’t mean that they stop dreaming color, of freedom. The poor want freedom from the government sanctioned slavery just the same as the rich want to keep theirs.”

“So what you’re saying is that because I was born into a priveleged life that provided me with opportunity, that I’m somehow against the poor and less fortunate, that I want to keep them where they are?”

“I don’t presume to kmow what you want,” I said. “I know that somewhere along the line your family seized opportunities to make profit, to secure itself from the ills of humanity.”

“Not with selling drugs!”

“Relax,” I laughed, trying to difuse the tension. “Nobody is saying that your family sells drugs. All I’m saying is that they seized an opportunity, probably several, and, some of them had risks associated with them. But the reward of securing their family’s future was worth the risk in the short term. That’s no different from what so many young Mexicans are doing...they’re sezing an opportunity.

“Yes,” I said, anticipating what he was about to say. “Their opportunity happens to be an addictive drug that destroys lives. We could also argue that guns are made for the single end of killing, cigarettes cause cancer, alcohol destroys more lives than drug use, and drilling for oil destroys our environment—but all these are perfectly legal. tell me that it isn’t hypocrisy for the U.S government to ban the cocaine and heroin, the two end products that happen to flood billions into Latin American economics, if they themselves could produce it they would undoubtebly be its biggest advocates. What American policy makers fear isn’t the well-being of its citizens, but fear of what economically powerful neighbors to the South might mean in generations to come. South Americans have two extremely resillient crops—coca and poppy—both extremely valuable on the world markets and they’re not supposed to sell them because it’s harmful. Can someone show me a product that isn’t harmful?”

“You don’t understand, Mario.”

“No, I don’t...”