I Couldn't Even Imagine That They Would Kill Us. John Gibler
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here than good, but that’s not true.
ERICK SANTIAGO LÓPEZ, 22, SOPHOMORE. It was around six in the evening when we gathered everyone together. The action that we had planned for that evening was to get some buses, nothing else. We left the school in two buses from the Estrella de Oro line. The action was planned in that moment, but long before that we had had a meeting with the student federation from the seventeen rural teachers colleges. In that meeting we planned for the October 2 march in Mexico City.1 Here at my school, as always, we try to support the other teachers colleges. So with the secretary and the other members of the committee—and at that time, I was a member of the committee—we came to an agreement that we would round up about twenty-five buses to transport our compañeros and compañeras from the other colleges. This had already been planned, but only people within the committee knew about it. Only the committee knows about the plans when we agree on actions, the student rank and file doesn’t know about the plans. We decided to head out that afternoon and make a call to the students that only the freshman would be going out on an action. We always take the freshman out on the actions, not the sophomores. Why? Because here at our college we say that the freshmen have to take the lead. After them, the sophomores, and at the back the seniors. Why? Because they are the ones who have to spearhead the activities. And the members of the committee go in front with the freshmen. The committee also goes at the lead, and everyone else behind them.
JOSÉ LUIS GARCÍA, 20, FRESHMAN. On the twenty-sixth of September we were out working in the fields. They called us together because we’d be going out on an action to collect donations. And so we all got on the buses. It was around five or five-thirty in the afternoon. We went to our rooms to get T-shirts and then we left.
OMAR GARCÍA, 24, SOPHOMORE. On the morning of the twenty-sixth we tried to go to Chilpancingo, but we couldn’t get any buses there. The police stopped us. And, you know, that’s fine, no? They stopped us as they should stop us, without beatings, without anything like that, strictly following protocol. And so we left empty-handed.
“Where are we going to go now,” we wondered, “what are we going to do? We absolutely have to have two more buses by this afternoon. If not, we’re not going to make the goal.”
COYUCO BARRIENTOS, 21, FRESHMAN. The argument I had with my mom had happened around January. Since then I had not communicated with her. On the afternoon of September 26, while we were in marching band practice, I saw, off in the distance, that she—my mom—was arriving. I stepped away from the compañeros, asked permission, and the vice principal gave me a chance to go talk with her. I hadn’t told her, in fact I had told hardly anyone, that I would be coming to study here. I had just focused on working, saving some money, and no one knew. I went and spoke with my mom, and after so much time you feel . . . well, nostalgia. All the other compañeros’ moms, or at least some relative of theirs, would come to visit them or send them something, money, or even just call them. And there I was, alone, without anyone to call me, or make some gesture of caring, or anything. To be honest, it was intense; I never imagined, after so much time, that she would come out here.
Afterward, with band practice over, I went to my room to rest. That was when I started to notice that there was something going on. They started to call us, to tell us that we should get ready, that we would be going out to an action. We started to gather together and head toward the bus. The majority of us didn’t know what action we would be going on. They just said: “Let’s go, this way.” Later they told us: “We’re going to Iguala to ask for donations.” And so we all took our seats, we were relaxed.
Other compañeros hadn’t had a chance to leave the school grounds. It was the first time they were going out. Some were talking, others were joking around. Others of us were quiet. In fact, for some groups that had been the first day of classes. And personally, for me, after not having seen my mom for so much time, it was the very day that she had come here, precisely that day. On the road I felt a kind of heavy vibe. Everything was calm. But I sensed something strange. But, you know, we kept going.
JOSÉ ARMANDO, 20, FRESHMAN. We had our first class that morning. We all got up excited that morning: we were happy, joking around with each other. We had class, went to eat lunch, and then went to another class. They called us out to the módulos, which is doing farm work in the different fields on campus. We went and were working in the fields, planting corn and cempasúchil and tapayola flowers. And there we were, clearing the cornfields, everyone in a good mood. Who could have imagined what was about to happen? At five o’clock they called us to go out on an action. The plan wasn’t to go to Iguala. We were going to get some buses for a reason, because Ayotzinapa was to host other students who would all travel together to the October 2 march that’s held every year to commemorate the Massacre of Tlatelolco. And so we went. We left from here at six. We all gathered together and we went in two buses that we already had at the school, they were from the company Estrella de Oro. And we went, everyone in a good mood, like we always are when we go out to an action, laughing, wrestling, and so on.
GERMÁN, 19, FRESHMAN. We were working in the fields that we have here when some of our compañeros came up and said, “Compas, we’re heading out for an action, everyone get ready.” We went off happy, running. We stopped the fieldwork and left. We got on the bus. I was with one of my compañeros who is disappeared. (In fact, five of the compañeros that are now disappeared are my friends.) So, with all of them we were messing around like always, you see how we are, talking, fucking around, talking about girls, everything.
SANTIAGO FLORES, 24, FRESHMAN. They had told us that that day in the afternoon they would let us go, we could leave the campus, I think for five days. They sent us to do fieldwork. They sent us to cut the weeds that had grown up in the cornfields. In the afternoon we were clearing the weeds, we were joking around with each other. The compa in charge had told us that as soon as we finished we’d be able to go home for a few days of vacation. But then some other compas from the committee showed up and told us that there would be an action. They told us we had to go, that it was required.
With another compa I went from the fields to change, we went to get a jacket, or a sweater, since it was already late afternoon and we thought we’d be out after nightfall. My compañero didn’t want to go. He is disappeared. His name is Jesús Jovany Rodríguez Tlatempa. We call him El Churro, Doughnut. He told me he didn’t want to go. I don’t know if he sensed something, but he didn’t want to go. I told him that we should go, because if not we’d get punished. And so he said to me: “Okay, let’s go.”
ALEX ROJAS, FRESHMAN. On September 26, we were at dance club practice when they told us there was going to be an action. They didn’t tell us exactly what kind of action it would be. And so, around six in the afternoon, together with the other compañeros from the dance club and other clubs, we went to the parking lot to get on one of the two Estrella de Oro buses. We got on the buses. I was in the second bus. We were all talking and having a good time. During the trip I was seated next to a compañero who was one of my better friends at the school. He’s from the town of Apango. And we were talking about how we wouldn’t get separated, we would stick together. I said that whatever happened we’d try and return early. We had heard that we were going to get two or three buses to use to drive to the October 2 march commemorating the massacre of students at Tlatelolco. And so we agreed that if we were going to hijack buses, we’d get on the first bus we grabbed, so we could get back to school early and avoid any trouble. My compañero, the one who was sitting next to me, is named Miguel Ángel Mendoza. He is disappeared.
ANDRÉS HERNÁNDEZ, 21, FRESHMAN. That afternoon I—I’m in the dance club—I had finished dance practice. We finished practice and went back to our rooms. Then they called us, saying that there was going to be an action. And so, you know, we went.
CARLOS MARTÍNEZ, 21, SOPHOMORE. Every year people commemorate the October 2 massacre in Mexico City. A whole lot of organizations from the Federal District and beyond all participate. A part of the commitment that we make to attend the march is to gather enough buses to get to the march.