On the Front Lines of a Cartel War, Funeral Workers Bear a City’s Grief

When Ramón Soto arrived at the scene, the injured man was barely clinging to life, bloody and convulsing. A woman nearby wept uncontrollably, while a stark warning from a drug cartel lay plastered on a poster: “You know who is next.”

Despite the horrific scene, Mr. Soto remained outwardly calm as the man’s last breaths faded. “He is dead,” he stated, then approached the grieving woman to inquire if she was a relative and required funeral arrangements.

In Mexico’s Sinaloa State, funeral workers belong to a somber, silent brotherhood, whose days are punctuated by the grim reality of death. What was once a revered role—providing comfort and guidance to families navigating loss—has now placed them squarely in the heart of the relentless violence consuming their region.

The Sinaloa Cartel, a criminal organization of immense global power, is currently embroiled in a brutal internal struggle for control of its vast, multi-billion-dollar enterprise. Simultaneously, the Mexican government, facing significant pressure from the Trump administration, has intensified its own aggressive efforts to dismantle the cartel.

This relentless conflict has plunged the state into utter chaos, resulting in over 1,900 deaths and 2,000 disappearances in the past year alone, according to official figures.

For Culiacán’s mere 30 funeral home workers, the task of transporting the deceased—be it cartel members or innocent victims caught in the crossfire—has become an overwhelming burden, unprecedented in its scale and emotional toll.

“Death is my constant companion, day in and day out,” shared Josué Nahum García, an employee at San Martin Funeral Home. “I don’t just witness it; I feel it deeply through the anguish and tears of the families grieving their lost loved ones.”

A Life on Call: The Relentless Demands of Their Profession

In Sinaloa, these dedicated workers are in a perpetual state of readiness, rushing from grim crime scenes and accident sites to hospitals and overflowing morgues, wherever tragedy has unfolded. While authorities usually handle body recovery, the sheer volume of incidents often requires the funeral workers to assist, stretching their resources thin.

They provide comprehensive support throughout the entire process: transporting bodies from the morgue to their funeral homes, guiding grieving families through complex legal and administrative procedures, meticulously preparing the deceased, arranging coffins, and overseeing burials and memorial services.

Josué García, with 14 years of experience, remarked that the past year’s violence has been unparalleled. Last month alone, he and his team recovered 262 bodies, with half of those being victims of brutal killings.

Often, the slender, 40-year-old Mr. García, always professionally dressed in a blue button-down and suit pants, appears unaffected by Sinaloa’s intense heat or the pervasive smell of death.

Yet, some days are profoundly more challenging than others. Just months prior, he responded to a call where he discovered the tragic sight of a father and his two young sons, aged 14 and 8, slumped lifelessly in a bullet-riddled car. Police later revealed that the father, in a moment of terror, had accelerated instead of stopping when cartel gunmen signaled him.

That night, Mr. García confessed to locking himself in his bathroom, weeping silently to spare his wife and daughter from hearing his distress.

Like many of his peers, he has attempted brief breaks from the profession. However, he admits to being drawn back by the adrenaline of the chase and the inherent urgency surrounding each death.

Despite the immense psychological toll, these workers articulate a profound sense of purpose and even solace in their work. They strive to offer dignity to families shattered by violence, as well as to those grieving deaths from accidents and natural causes.

Gérman Sarabia, a 55-year-old embalmer, finds his greatest reward when a grieving family member tells him, ‘Thank you, he looks so peaceful, as if he were only sleeping.’

Regardless of how death occurred, Sarabia dedicates himself to restoring a semblance of humanity to each body. He meticulously smooths features, gently massages faces, and subtly shapes mouths to suggest peaceful smiles. ‘At least I can offer them that small measure of relief,’ he explained.

Beyond the physical tasks, these compassionate workers navigate families, often bewildered and immobilized by grief, through the labyrinthine legal and bureaucratic processes that follow a death.

“I want to believe that I help them, even if just a little, amidst all their suffering,” Mr. García mused one recent evening, as he waited outside a hospital, his eyes scanning for families of the newly deceased—potential clients in their greatest time of need.

Yet, a deeper question weighs on him: When will this relentless bloodshed cease? ‘It’s enough pain already,’ he uttered with a sigh.

The Unseen Toll of an Essential Service

While the ongoing conflict has paradoxically boosted their monthly income by nearly a third—from $730 to around $1,000—the funeral workers emphasize that this financial gain comes at a profound emotional price.

“I would gladly exchange this money for the freedom of feeling safe and unafraid,” expressed Javier Aragón, a 36-year-old who has dedicated 16 years to Emaús Funerary Home.

The victims of cartel violence are diverse and heartbreaking: fathers, mothers, children heading to school, teachers, and countless others. Their bodies are discovered in canals, sprawling open fields, on hot asphalt, or inside running cars. While many show signs of brutal torture, a significant number were simply innocent bystanders caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A video captures the grim reality: thousands of federal security forces have been deployed across Sinaloa State, where rival factions of the Sinaloa Cartel have been engaged in a brutal and bloody war since last year.

Each worker bears the immense weight of their profession uniquely. Some report a creeping numbness, a detachment from the horror. Others describe a pervasive mental and physical exhaustion. Some claim to have mastered the art of switching off emotions entirely, yet even they admit that certain scenes—like a mother killed by a stray bullet while cradling her baby—can still pierce through their defenses.

Despite the hardship, a shared sentiment among them is that this difficult work simply has to be done.

“It’s a service someone has to provide,” Mr. Aragón explained. “We don’t sit in judgment of whether they were good or bad; they are all human beings, and their families deserve our care.”

He shared that a combination of learned emotional detachment and professional counseling courses has been crucial in helping him cope with the job’s profound impact.

“We serve as intermediaries between our funeral homes and the grieving families,” he clarified. “This allows us to feel empathy without becoming overwhelmed by their suffering, as it is their journey to bear, not ours.”

Amidst the demanding nature of their work, these men have forged a strong camaraderie. In any given week, they often spend more hours together—on the road, enduring long waits outside morgues and hospitals, sometimes through grueling 24-hour shifts—than they do with their own families.

However, few bear this heavy burden as personally as 45-year-old Guillermo Torres Rangel, who began his career as a funeral worker at just 18.

A decade ago, he received a call about a car submerged in a Culiacán canal, with a woman’s body floating nearby.

Upon arrival, he initiated his routine: examining the body for clues to the cause of death, the preliminary step before searching for relatives. But this time, the deceased was not a stranger. He was the relative.

It was his youngest sister, who had vanished three months prior after going to a party with a friend.

Her body, he recounted, had deteriorated after weeks submerged in water. Yet, he recognized a tiny piece of black lace, lovingly stitched by their mother into the undergarments worn by her daughters.

He stood motionless, paralyzed by shock and unable to utter a word. Then, he collapsed.

Mr. Torres endured months of profound depression and subsequently left his job at the funeral home.

“I wished for my own death,” he admitted, “I simply couldn’t bear to face anyone else’s.”

However, nine years later, the pressing need for employment drew him back. The funeral home was hiring, and he needed work.