Details gleaned from Borderland Beat, 6/22/2025
In the parched lowlands of Colima, where the dust clings to the skin like a second, unwanted soul, an operation unfolded, quiet at first, like the beginning of a storm no one prays for.
In the municipality of TecomΓ‘n, in the village of Cerro de Ortega, state forces descended. They were not alone. The Navy moved with them, boots stepping heavily on soil that has absorbed too much blood.
Fifteen men were taken,men who, according to the authorities, bore allegiance not to a flag or to family, but to the Jalisco Nueva GeneraciΓ³n Cartel. These men did not come quietly. Gunfire broke the stillness, echoing over dry fields and shuttered homes. When the shooting ceased, three lay dead, men who once had names, histories, perhaps even prayers once whispered for them, but who had long since vanished into the dark machinery of crime.
The confiscated weapons and gear, so proudly displayed in official communiquΓ©s, spoke a grim language of their own: a nation arming itself within, like a body growing tumors from its marrow. A blockade appeared soon after on Federal Highway Mexico 200, that lifeline of asphalt between Colima and MichoacΓ‘n, evidence, perhaps, of resistance not only from criminals, but from civilians themselves, straining under the weight of a war not of their choosing.
Rumors float like ash in the air: that the blockade was a protest, that it cried out against the violence of both state and syndicate. But no confirmation has emerged, only silence and guarded statements.
What happened in Cerro de Ortega was not merely a tactical success. It was a moment, another stitch in a dark, endless quilt of conflict, sewn with fear and certainty alike. And the people, ordinary people, remain, caught between two iron teeth grinding closer with each passing year.
Further details, we are told, will follow. But for the people of Colima, the news has already arrived.
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