Human Trafficking in Oaxaca, Mexico

Human Merchandise

In a forgotten corner of the mountains of Oaxaca, there was a village that did not appear on maps. Its name was a whisper in the shadows of the nearest city. Sometimes, the villagers arrived with exotic products, skins and wild fruits, but what few knew was that the true trade of the village was in what they did not show: people.

Juanito, a young man of only 20 years, had decided to leave the city in search of adventures and tranquility. His studies at the university had kept him busy, and the stress of daily life pushed him to embark on a solo journey, to explore serene landscapes and disconnect from the routine. He had heard through an online forum about a small villa in the mountains where time seemed to have stopped, perfect for a break. Without thinking too much, he rented a small cabin on the outskirts of the mysterious village.

The first few days were peaceful. Juanito walked along the paths, enjoying the fresh air and breathtaking views. The villagers watched him from a distance, their cold and calculating gazes, but he paid them little attention, assuming they were not used to outsiders. One afternoon, while strolling through the cobbled paths, he noticed a girl watching him with wide, glassy eyes. The little girl approached him, barely whispering: "You shouldn't be here. They are watching you." Before Juanito could ask, the girl disappeared into the mist that was beginning to fall over the village.

That night, while trying to sleep, Juanito heard footsteps outside his cabin. He thought they were animals, but the sounds were too heavy, human. Suddenly, the door creaked open. He tried to move, to scream, but something held him from the darkness. They dragged him away, his mind clouded by terror and confusion. When he woke up, he was in an underground room, dark and damp. Around him, other people caged like animals. The groans and cries filled the air.

Among the shadows, a man with an old leather mask watched him. He did not speak, but his presence was overwhelming. "You're lucky," said a woman next to him, her face haggard from despair. "Some don't survive that long. They sell us, they trade us like merchandise." Juanito tried to understand, but the reality was worse than any nightmare. In that village, people disappeared without a trace, sold like objects.

Days later, the basement door opened again. Juanito was forcibly pulled out, his screams echoing through the tunnels. They took him to the edge of the village, where a truck waited. There was the buyer, a well-dressed man, talking to one of the villagers as if they were closing any ordinary deal.

The buyer approached Juanito, his gaze cold and calculating. He inspected him as if he were an animal, examining his body and face. Suddenly, he grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"You are strong," said the buyer, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will be useful on my farm."

Juanito tried to speak, but the buyer silenced him with two slaps. Then he spat in his face.

"You are nothing," he said. "Just a tool for my benefit."

Juanito felt humiliated and terrified. He knew his fate was to be used as a slave, stripped of his freedom and dignity.

The truck started, taking not only Juanito but also his hope, his life, and his freedom. No one would ever come looking for him.