URUAPAN, Mexico – In a brazen act of violence that shattered the festive spirit of Mexico's Day of the Dead celebrations, gunmen assassinated Carlos Manzo, the mayor of Uruapan in the violence-plagued state of Michoacán, authorities confirmed on Saturday, November 1, 2025. The attack unfolded in the heart of the city's central plaza, where hundreds had gathered for a public event honoring the nation's beloved tradition of remembering the departed.
According to a statement from Mexico's national public security agency, the assailants opened fire on Manzo during the event, sparking immediate chaos as panicked crowds fled the scene. Videos captured by eyewitnesses, which quickly spread across social media platforms, depicted the harrowing moments: families clutching children, traditional altars adorned with marigolds and candles toppled in the stampede, and the unmistakable crackle of gunfire echoing through the night. "It was like a nightmare," one attendee, who wished to remain anonymous, told local reporters. "One moment we were lighting copal incense for our loved ones, and the next, people were screaming and running for their lives."
The agency reported that two suspects involved in the incident were promptly arrested by responding security forces, while one of the assailants was killed during the ensuing confrontation. Details on the identities of those detained remain under wraps as investigations continue, but preliminary reports suggest the attack was meticulously planned, with the gunmen blending into the crowd before striking.
Carlos Manzo, a 48-year-old career politician and former local businessman, had assumed office in September 2024 as part of a coalition committed to revitalizing Uruapan, once dubbed the "avocado capital of the world." Known for his hands-on approach to governance, Manzo frequently donned a bulletproof vest to accompany police patrols through the city's troubled neighborhoods. His administration prioritized community engagement, launching initiatives to support avocado farmers beleaguered by extortion rackets and investing in youth programs to deter recruitment by criminal groups.
Manzo's vocal stance against organized crime made him a polarizing yet admired figure. In a widely shared video posted to his social media account in June 2025, he implored the federal government to deploy additional resources to Michoacán, declaring, "Our people deserve to live without fear. The cartels are not invincible; they thrive on our silence and the government's hesitation. It's time for real action to shield our families from this plague." His pleas echoed the frustrations of many in a state where agricultural wealth has long been a double-edged sword, fueling both economic prosperity and ruthless turf wars.
Michoacán, with its fertile valleys and Pacific coastline, has been entangled in cartel conflicts for over a decade. The state's production of avocados, limes, and berries—exports worth billions annually—has made it a prime target for groups like the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) and La Familia Michoacana, who impose "derecho de piso" (floor rights) fees on producers. These extortions, often enforced through threats of arson or murder, have driven up food prices globally while devastating local livelihoods. A 2025 report by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime highlighted Michoacán as a key node in the fentanyl trade, with hidden labs processing precursor chemicals smuggled from Asia via the port of Lázaro Cárdenas.
This assassination is not an isolated tragedy but part of a chilling pattern of targeted killings against public officials across Mexico. Just days prior, on October 28, 2025, Bernardo Bravo, a prominent farmer representative in the municipality of Tepalcatepec, was gunned down in broad daylight. Bravo, 62, had been a fierce critic of gang extortion, organizing cooperatives to resist cartel demands and testifying before congressional committees on the need for agrarian reforms. His death, attributed to suspected CJNG hitmen, prompted protests from agricultural unions, who decried the government's "indifference" to rural insecurity. Bravo's killing left his community in mourning, with farmers vowing to continue his work despite the risks.
The bloodshed extends beyond Michoacán's borders. Last month, on October 12, 2025, the mayor of Pisaflores in the central state of Hidalgo, María Elena Torres, was ambushed and killed by armed assailants as she exited a town hall meeting. Torres, a first-term official focused on indigenous rights and environmental protection, had received multiple death threats after refusing to collude with local smugglers trafficking timber and migrants. Her assassination, carried out with military-grade weapons, exposed the infiltration of cartels into even remote, forested regions.
In June 2025, a more gruesome attack saw gunmen storm the mayor's office in Chilpancingo, the capital of Guerrero in southern Mexico, executing Mayor José Luis Hernández and his communications aide in a hail of bullets. The assailants, believed to be from the Guerreros Unidos cartel, left behind narcomantas—message banners—warning other officials against "betraying the plaza." The following day, in the western state of Jalisco, Mayor Ana Gabriela López and her husband, a retired police officer, were found bound and shot execution-style in their home in the town of Tala. López's death was linked to her efforts to dismantle a human trafficking ring operating under cartel protection.
These incidents underscore a broader crisis gripping Mexico: nearly two decades of unrelenting drug-fueled violence that has claimed over 450,000 lives since former President Felipe Calderón launched a military crackdown in 2006, according to updated figures from the government's Executive Secretariat for Public Security. The current administration under President Claudia Sheinbaum, who took office in October 2024 promising a "hugs, not bullets" approach emphasizing social programs over confrontation, faces mounting pressure to address the impunity that allows 98% of homicides to go unsolved, per the 2025 Mexico Peace Index. Cartels have evolved into quasi-states, providing services like informal banking and dispute resolution in underserved areas while terrorizing dissenters.
In Uruapan, Manzo's death has ignited calls for systemic change. Local activists, including members of the self-defense groups that rose during the 2013 Knights Templar uprising, rallied on Sunday, November 2, demanding federal intervention. "Manzo walked among us, vest and all, showing courage we all need," said Javier Ortiz, a 35-year-old avocado grower whose brother was kidnapped last year. "But one man can't fight an army of ghosts. We need troops that stay, not rotate out after photo ops."
Experts warn that the slaying could exacerbate instability in Uruapan, where 2025 has already seen a 30% rise in homicides compared to the previous year, according to state prosecutor's office data. Dr. Elena Vargas, a security analyst at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM), noted in an interview, "This is a direct assault on democracy. Killing a mayor during a cultural cornerstone like Día de Muertos isn't just murder; it's psychological warfare, eroding trust in institutions." Vargas advocates for intelligence-led policing, crop substitution programs to reduce cartel reliance on extortion, and international cooperation to curb arms smuggling from the United States.
In the immediate aftermath, Uruapan's acting mayor, Vice Mayor Ricardo Fuentes, addressed a subdued crowd at a makeshift vigil outside city hall on Saturday evening. Flanked by National Guard personnel, Fuentes declared, "Carlos was more than a leader; he was a brother to this community, a shield against the darkness." He pledged to honor Manzo's legacy by accelerating security reforms, including the installation of 50 new surveillance cameras and expanded community policing. Federal reinforcements—200 National Guard troops and forensic teams from the Federal Ministerial Police—were airlifted in overnight, establishing checkpoints along major avenues and the highway to Morelia, the state capital.
Despite the trauma, Day of the Dead observances persisted, albeit under a veil of sorrow. Families in Uruapan's colonias set up modest ofrendas with photos of Manzo added alongside those of deceased relatives, their flickering candles a defiant glow against the encroaching night. Processions wound through streets lined with calaveras—skeletal figures mocking death—carrying banners reading "No Más Muertos por Narcos" (No More Deaths by Narcos). In Mexico City, thousands marched in solidarity, linking arms with indigenous groups from Oaxaca and urban youth from Monterrey, chanting for justice.
As investigations unfold, ballistic analysis points to 9mm pistols commonly used by CJNG operatives, though no group has claimed responsibility—a tactic increasingly employed to sow confusion. Manzo leaves behind a wife, two teenage daughters, and a legacy of unyielding resolve. His assassination, timed to maximize horror during a holiday of communal healing, lays bare the fragility of Mexico's social fabric. Yet in the marigold-strewn paths of remembrance, there stirs a resilient spirit: the unquenchable belief that from death's embrace, life—and accountability—can yet emerge. For now, Uruapan mourns, but it does not break.
