Chapter 2035 - 842: Anti-Mexico

February 3, 1998, Quito, Carondelet Palace.

President Favian Alarcon sat in his office, three reports spread out before him.

The first was from the Ministry of Internal Affairs: over the past week, violent incidents against Mexican businesses and citizens nationwide increased from 47 to 213. The second was from the military: small unidentified armed groups appeared at the northern border, suspected of infiltration. The third was from the Foreign Ministry: the Mexican Government issued a third diplomatic note, each with increasingly strong wording.

He pushed the three reports aside and rubbed his temples.

At 63, with forty years in politics, he had never encountered such a situation.

The door was pushed open. Foreign Minister Jose Ayala walked in, his face even darker than the gloomy sky outside.

"Mr. President, the TV station people have arrived. They are requesting an interview regarding those Mexicans."

Alarcon looked up.

"Tell them I'm preparing."

Ayala stood still.

"Is there anything else?"

The Foreign Minister was silent for a few seconds.

"The military… some generals are conspiring privately. They're saying if you are too lenient with Mexico, they'll take action themselves."

Alarcon's hand halted in mid-air.

He knew who those generals were. Northern Military Zone Commander Patricio Acuña, Southern Military Zone Commander Gilberto Gutierrez, and a few retired veterans who always clamored in the media about 'defending national sovereignty.'

"What do they want to do?"

Ayala shook his head.

"I don't know. But I know one thing: yesterday, General Acuña met with the head of the 'Quito Patriotic Front.' That organization is the main force behind the recent anti-Mexico protests."

Alarcon remained silent for a long time.

Then he stood up, adjusted his tie.

"Let's go, to the press conference."

The press conference lasted twenty minutes.

Alarcon stood in front of the microphone and read through the script: expressed regret for the violent incidents, promised an investigation, called for public calm, and emphasized Ecuador and Mexico's traditional friendship.

The reporters weren't satisfied.

"Mr. President, it's been six days since that family in Guayaquil was burned to death, have the perpetrators been caught?"

"Mr. President, the Mexican Government's notes are getting increasingly tough, how do you plan to respond?"

"Mr. President, some military personnel are saying a more hardline stance should be taken against Mexico, what's your view?"

Alarcon didn't answer any of them.

He turned and left the press hall.

In the corridor, Ayala caught up with him.

"Mr. President, there's one more thing."

"Say it."

"Over in Guayas Province, several mayors have co-signed a letter. They're requesting the central government to authorize local police to conduct 'identity checks' on Mexicans in their jurisdictions."

Alarcon halted.

"Identity checks?"

"Checking documents, checking residence permits, and checking taxes. If any issues are found, they'll be deported."

Alarcon looked at him.

"Whose idea is this?"

Ayala lowered his head.

"Guayaquil Mayor Sinopiquiar. He's very close to General Acuña."

February 5, 1998, Guayaquil.

The "identity checks" began that morning.

The police, in pairs, held lists and knocked on doors one by one.

The names on the list were all Mexicans—or people who sounded Mexican.

The first was a bakery.

The owner, named Jose Luis Hernandez, age thirty-eight, a Mexico City native, had been running the bakery in Guayaquil for twelve years. He had an Ecuadorian wife and three children, all born here.

When the police entered, he was kneading dough.

"Documents."

He wiped his hands and went inside to get his residence card.

The residence card was from last year and still valid.

The police glanced at it and handed the card back to him.

"Tax documents."

He found the tax documents. From last month, just paid.

The police glanced at them again.

"Alright."

The police left.

Jose Luis stood at the door, watching their backs, feeling uneasy.

This was the first batch.

The second batch came two hours later.

Still police, but a new set of people.

"Documents."

He handed them over again.

"Tax documents."

He handed them over again.

"Alright."

The third batch came in the evening.

This time it wasn't police, but a few people in civilian clothes. The leader was in his early thirties, wearing sunglasses, with a bulging underarm, as if a gun was tucked there.

"Jose Luis Hernandez?"

"That's me."

"Come with us."

Jose Luis was stunned.

"Why?"

The leader didn't answer.

Two people behind him stepped forward, grabbed Jose Luis by the arms on either side, and dragged him out.

His wife chased after them and was pushed down to the ground.

"Help!" she yelled.

The neighbors stood at their doors watching, not moving.

Jose Luis was shoved into an unmarked van, the door closed, and the vehicle drove off.

Two days later, his body was found downstream in the Guayas River.

It had seventeen stab wounds.

San Blas District.

This area is where the largest concentration of Mexicans in Quito is found, with about two thousand residents, mostly shopkeepers, workers, and businesspeople.

At eight in the morning, a crowd surged in from outside the district.

Over two hundred people, both men and women, holding signs, chanting slogans.

"Mexicans get out!"

"Ecuador is for Ecuadorians!"

"Burn the Mexican thieves!"

The leaders carried sticks and machetes.

The police stood at the district's entrance, watching them surge in, not stopping them.

The first to suffer was the Mexican restaurant at the corner.

The door was kicked open, tables and chairs smashed, glass shattered all over the ground. The owner rushed out to reason, was knocked down by a club, and then five or six people surrounded him, punching and kicking, brandishing machetes wildly.