When Ramón Soto arrived at the scene, the injured man was still convulsing, covered in blood, clinging to life. Nearby, a woman crumpled to her knees, her cries piercing the air. A chilling cartel warning lay on the ground, a stark reminder of the ever-present danger: “You know who is next.”
Mr. Soto, a seasoned funeral worker, remained stoic as the last signs of life faded from the man. “He is dead,” he calmly stated, then turned to the distraught woman, offering funeral services. For these dedicated professionals in Mexico’s Sinaloa State, death is a constant companion. Their role, once a solemn duty of guiding families through grief, has transformed into a frontline position amidst the brutal violence consuming their community.
(Image: Juani Andrade, consumed by grief, covers her cousin José Carlos Sazueta with a blue cloth. Ramón Javier Soto Alvarez, a funeral worker, stands nearby in Culiacán, Sinaloa State.)
(Image: Ms. Andrade weeps over her cousin’s body.)
(Image: Funeral home employees await their grim duties outside the Forensic Medicine Department in Culiacán.)
In Sinaloa, fierce factions of one of the world’s most powerful criminal organizations, the Sinaloa Cartel, are locked in a ruthless struggle for dominance over its multi-billion-dollar enterprise. Adding to the turmoil, the Mexican government, under pressure from a previous U.S. administration, has intensified its crackdown on cartel activities.
This relentless conflict has plunged the state into chaos, claiming over 1,900 lives and leaving 2,000 people missing in the past year alone, according to official figures. For Culiacán’s small group of roughly 30 funeral home workers, the task of transporting the deceased – whether cartel members or innocent victims caught in the crossfire – has become overwhelmingly demanding.
“I live with death, day in and day out,” shared Josué Nahum García, an employee at San Martin Funeral Home. “It’s not just what I witness; I feel it deeply through the sorrow and tears of families losing their loved ones.”
Living on Constant Call
Across Sinaloa, these workers are in perpetual motion, hurrying from gruesome crime scenes and devastating accident sites to hospitals and morgues – wherever tragedy strikes. While authorities typically handle body recovery, the sheer volume of cases often forces them to enlist the aid of funeral home staff.
From that moment, these dedicated individuals provide a full spectrum of services: transporting bodies from morgues to funeral homes, navigating complex legal and administrative procedures for grieving families, preparing the deceased, arranging coffins, and conducting burials and memorials.
Josué Nahum García, with 14 years of experience, states he has never witnessed violence on such a scale as in the past year. Last month alone, he and his colleagues recovered 262 bodies, with half being victims of violent homicides. Despite the region’s intense heat and the grim odor of death, Mr. García, a lean 40-year-old in a blue button-down shirt and suit pants, often appears unfazed.
(Image: Josué Nahum García, a San Martin Funeral Home employee, stands outside a hospital in Culiacán.)
(Image: A funeral worker assists local authorities in retrieving a body from a field on the outskirts of Culiacán.)
However, some days prove more challenging. A few months prior, he responded to a scene where, inside a bullet-riddled car, he discovered a father and his two young sons, aged 14 and 8. Police later revealed that cartel gunmen had signaled the father to stop, but in a moment of terror, he had accelerated instead.
That night, Mr. García confessed to locking himself in the bathroom, weeping silently to spare his wife and daughter from hearing his anguish.
Like many of his peers, he has attempted to leave the profession briefly. Yet, he finds himself continually drawn back by the adrenaline of the urgent call and the profound impact of each death.
Despite the immense psychological burden, these workers find purpose and even solace in their duties. They offer a final measure of dignity to families devastated by violence, as well as to those mourning losses from accidents and natural causes.
“The deepest satisfaction comes when a relative tells me, ‘Thank you, he looks so peaceful, as if he were only sleeping,'” shared Gérman Sarabia, a 55-year-old embalmer. Regardless of how someone died, he meticulously works to restore humanity to each body, gently smoothing features, massaging faces, and subtly adjusting mouths to suggest a peaceful repose. “At least I can offer them that small comfort,” he stated.
(Image: Gérman Sarabia, a San Martin funeral home employee, outside a hospital in Costa Rica, Sinaloa.)
(Image: A funeral worker assists local authorities in recovering a body near Culiacán.)
Beyond their physical tasks, these workers also navigate grieving families through the bewildering maze of legal documents and administrative procedures that inevitably follow a death. “I hope I can help them, even just a little, amidst all their sorrow,” Mr. García remarked on a recent evening, as he waited outside a hospital, observing families of the newly deceased — potential clients.
Yet, he often ponders when the endless bloodshed will finally cease. “It’s enough pain already,” he sighed.
(Image: Guillermo Torres Rangel, left, and Javier Aragón, from Emaús Funerary Home, outside the Forensic Medicine Department in Culiacán, Sinaloa.)
‘A Service Someone Has to Provide’
Despite the war’s tragic boost to their monthly income, increasing it by up to a third—from roughly $730 to $1,000—the funeral workers emphasize that this extra money comes at a heavy emotional cost.
“I would trade that money for feeling free and unafraid,” admitted Javier Aragón, 36, who has been with Emaús Funerary Home for 16 years.
The victims of cartel violence are diverse: fathers, mothers, children on their way to school, and teachers, among many others. Their bodies are discovered in canals, sprawling fields, on asphalt roads, and inside abandoned cars. Often bearing signs of torture, many victims are simply innocent bystanders caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
(Video: Federal security forces are deployed across Sinaloa State, where rival factions of the Sinaloa Cartel are engaged in a brutal war.)
Each funeral worker grapples with the weight of their profession in their own way. Some describe a creeping numbness, a mental and physical exhaustion that becomes ingrained. Others claim to have mastered switching off their emotions entirely. Still, some confess that certain scenes penetrate their defenses, like that of a mother killed by a stray bullet while clutching her baby.
For many, however, the job is simply a necessary act.
“It is a service someone has to provide,” Mr. Aragón affirmed. “We don’t judge whether they were good or bad; they are all people, and their families need our help.”
(Image: Candido Abitia Sarabia, left, from Moreh Funeral Home, and Mr. García outside the Forensic Medicine Department.)
(Image: Mr. García and Mr. Sarabia distribute business cards to potential clients outside the Forensic Medicine Department.)
He explained that a combination of emotional detachment techniques and counseling has helped him cope with the job’s demands. “We act as intermediaries between our companies and the families,” he said. “This allows us to feel empathy without internalizing their pain, as it is their personal process to endure, not ours.”
In the shared hardship, these men have forged a strong bond. In any given week, they often spend more time together—on the road, waiting outside morgues and hospitals, sometimes during grueling 24-hour shifts—than with their own families.
Few bear this burden as profoundly as Guillermo Torres Rangel, 45, who began as a funeral worker at 18.
A decade ago, he received a call about a car submerged in a canal on the outskirts of Culiacán, with a woman’s body floating nearby.
(Image: A funeral worker displays a St. Muerte, or St. Death, necklace.)
(Image: A St. Muerte altar is seen on the outskirts of Culiacán.)
Upon arrival, he followed his routine: examining the body for a cause of death before searching for next of kin. But this time, the deceased was not a stranger. It was his youngest sister, who had vanished three months earlier after heading to a party with a friend.
Her body, he recalled, had begun to decompose from weeks submerged in water. Yet, he recognized the small piece of black lace his mother had sewn into her daughters’ undergarments.
He froze, unable to move or speak, then fainted.
Mr. Torres endured months of depression and left the funeral home.
“I longed for my own death,” he recounted. “I couldn’t bear to deal with anyone else’s.”
But after nine years, necessity drew him back. He needed work, and the funeral home was hiring.
(Image: Mr. García, at the center, with other funeral workers outside a Culiacán hospital.)