Hopelessness and Drug Addiction on the Northern Border of Mexico

The trafficking and consumption of fentanyl is a significant international public health issue. It not only affects consumers directly but also creates a complex web of negative relationships that impact various aspects of daily life. In particular, these practices play a key role in shaping perceptions of security, as if the drug itself is an entity that increasingly affects even those who do not consume it. Based on a review of journalistic articles published in national newspapers (El Universal [2016- 2023], Excelsior [2020-2024], and El País [2023]) and local newspapers (El Sol de Tijuana [2017- 2023], El Imparcial [2023], and Semanario Zeta [2023]), this section presents some of the narratives constructed around the issue, covering the emergence of this drug in the local public discourse.

At the national level, the first references to fentanyl were largely informational, warning the public about this emerging threat. The new alarm focused on the opioid crisis in the United States, which placed responsibility on Mexico for the transit of this substance across the northern border. The informational content regarding fentanyl’s uses, high addictiveness, and profitability was supplemented with reports on clandestine laboratories where the drug was being produced (^{De Mauleón, 2016}). Within months, the threat of fentanyl began to take on a more menacing character, described allegorically as a demon—trendy, but a problem for the United States, not Mexico. By mid-2016, the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) was reporting a lack of data on the trafficking of this drug within Mexican territory (^{Redacción El Universal, 2016}).

Journalistic coverage increasingly prioritized fentanyl over heroin, emphasizing its heightened potency and reinforcing its status as the deadliest drug in the United States. By 2017, the narrative had shifted to highlight connections between Mexican drug traffickers and Chinese producers, symbolically recasting fentanyl as an illicit Asian immigrant passing through Mexico on its way to devastate the United States—akin to a terrorist threat to national security. The term opioid epidemic became the dominant discourse (^{Sancho, 2017}). In 2018, Mexico’s National Security Commissioner, Renato Sales Heredia, reframed the issue, stating that rising violence in Mexico was a direct consequence of U.S. demand for heroin and fentanyl—shifting the perceived threat from an external crisis to a domestic concern (^{García, 2018}). By 2019, some reports suggested that Mexico still had time to prevent widespread fentanyl consumption (^{Redacción El Universal, 2019}). However, as the year progressed, the narrative evolved into one of impending crisis, warning of a potential wave of fentanyl-related deaths, with Tijuana identified as the primary trafficking hub along the northern border (^{Toribio, 2020}).

Paradoxically, while some sources suggested that fentanyl threatened the profitability of Mexican cartels by replacing other substances in the market, the Sinaloa and Jalisco Nueva Generación cartels were simultaneously being identified as the primary exporters of the drug to the United States (^{Espino, 2019}; ^{Reyes & Ramírez, 2020}). Between 2019 and 2023, fentanyl seizures, the dismantling of clandestine laboratories, and violent confrontations between organized crime and the Secretaría de la Defensa Nacional (SEDENA)⁴ became routine occurrences, all linked to fentanyl trafficking (^{Redacción El Universal, 2020}). By 2024, fentanyl seizures were concentrated in the border states of Baja California, Chihuahua, and Sonora (^{Flores Martínez, 2024}). Throughout this period, authorities repeatedly emphasized that fentanyl consumption in Mexico remained minimal, though concerns persisted about its potential to escalate into a widespread crisis. In response, Mexico, China, and the United States sought joint strategies to curb the growing threat (^{Camhaji, 2023}).

Locally, newspapers such as El Sol de Tijuana, El Imparcial, and Semanario Zeta have extensively covered the fentanyl crisis and its impact on the Tijuana-San Diego region, highlighting the drug’s transborder nature and its widespread effects. Early local reports described fentanyl as a “highly addictive” controlled substance, posing a significant risk to youth (^{Pérez, 2022}). In early 2017, the first fentanyl seizures in the city were reported—both in kilogram and pill form—prompting various regional prevention and security organizations to take action. By 2023, fentanyl seizures had escalated to hundreds of thousands of pills (^{Hernández, 2018}; ^{Saucedo, 2018}). By 2020, local newspapers began documenting the first fentanyl overdoses in Tijuana, drawing attention to the government’s failure to contain the growing threat. Reports also noted a shift in drug consumption patterns—from uninformed to informed use. Initially, users were unaware they were ingesting fentanyl-laced substances, but over time, some began actively seeking the drug for its rapid and intense effects. While most fentanyl trafficked through the region remains destined for the U.S. market, a small but notable portion is now being consumed in Tijuana itself (^{Dayebi, 2023}).

The initial social perception of fentanyl, largely shaped by media coverage, appears to be materializing. By 2020, there were 1,568 recorded treatment requests for heroin use and 18 related to synthetic drugs. Between 2014 and 2022, 28 opioid-related deaths were officially reported (^{CONASAMA, 2024}). However, much of the heroin consumed may have been contaminated with fentanyl—an issue difficult to assess due to the lack of studies analyzing drug impurities and their prevalence. Moreover, the reported death toll presents significant discrepancies. In 2022, toxicology studies conducted by the Tijuana Forensic Medical Service detected fentanyl in 691 fatalities, a stark contrast to previous official statistics, suggesting a far more complex reality (^{CONASAMA, 2024}). This discrepancy indicates that fentanyl may be implicated in deaths beyond overdoses, including violent incidents and accidents.

Currently, neither Tijuana nor the rest of Mexico has an institutional program or adequate resources to systematically track fentanyl’s presence and its role in overdose-related, violent, or accidental deaths. Over time, fentanyl has evolved from being seen as a foreign, malevolent substance—often associated with migration and carrying racist connotations due to its Asian origin—to being recognized as a legitimate public health and security issue. Once regarded merely as a substance in transit to the United States, it is now perceived as a local threat, particularly in northern Mexico. At this point, it became a state priority to establish both legal and discursive frameworks to define institutional responses to fentanyl and other substances. This included shaping public perceptions of users and potential victims, as well as determining how the government would address this emerging crisis.

In response to the media-driven perception of fentanyl as a risk and amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, on March 17, 2020, the federal government launched a campaign for addiction prevention. In his report that day, President Andrés Manuel López Obrador stated:

This will be the most direct campaign to raise awareness about the harm caused by drugs, because we are going to expand it and make it intensive. Drug consumption causes many misfortunes, much pain, much sadness, especially among young people and their families, and we must counteract all the promotion that is made, projecting an image that this world of drugs and crime is a happy world—a world of, as we’ve said, luxury, mansions, branded clothes, jewelry, a pleasurable life—when in reality it’s hell. Even the most famous criminals have to live on the run; they have no peace. That is not life. And the worst thing is that there are drugs that destroy lives in months, completely harmful drugs that ruin young people’s lives. (^{López Obrador, 2020, 07:45})

The slogan “En el mundo de las drogas no hay final feliz” (In the world of drugs, there is no happy ending) framed Mexico’s new addiction prevention strategy. Spokesperson Jesús Ramírez Cuevas explained that the campaign aimed to: “not stigmatize consumers, but to speak the truth about the reality of what it means for a person, especially for a teenager or a young person, to consume substances” (^{Ramírez Cuevas, 2020, 43:38}). As reflected in the president’s statement, and seen in several of the produced videos,⁵ the audiovisual message seeks to contrast the allure of drug consumption and trafficking with the devastating personal and family consequences both activities bring. Additionally, other videos highlight the risks of consuming specific substances, such as cigarettes, alcohol, methamphetamines, cocaine, heroin, crack, and fentanyl, generally illustrating a supposed progressive line of drug consumption—from less harmful substances like tobacco to more destructive ones like crack or meth.

However, there is a contradiction between the campaign’s objective and the audiovisual product it produced. On one hand, the alarming narrative is undermined by the visual aesthetic of the spots. The videos mimic the sensationalist style of television series and hip-hop music videos, where the use of narcotics and the criminal lifestyle associated with them are exalted and celebrated. In one of the videos, a hip-hop song states: “The monkey, the fentanyl, destroys your senses, if you smoke or inhale it, you’re dying alive [...] Listen to what I’m telling you, because it’s true, the drug business is something that ends badly” (^{Gobierno de México, 2022, 01:17}). By borrowing the aesthetic of media that glorify drug use and narco culture, the intended message is ultimately diluted. In this case, the spot closely mirrors the videos of hip-hop artist Dharius, whose portrayal of drugs, sex, and violence as symbols of social triumph reinforces these ideals (^{Dharius Oficial, 2016}).

The success of series like Narcos: Mexico, El Señor de los Cielos, El Chapo, and others illustrates that the perception, especially among youth, of the rationality behind choosing a criminal life is far more complex than a simple calculation of potential physical and social consequences (^{Morín, 2015}; ^{Valenzuela Arce, 2024}). However, there is a deeper issue with this strategy.

In this campaign, both media narco-culture and the government share the same aesthetic, one that associates drug addiction, violence, and crime. As a result, the campaign fails in its goal of not stigmatizing the user. It resorts to what can be called “addiction porn,” depicting individuals injecting drugs, staggering like zombies, passed out on the streets, or overdosing in abandoned lots. This approach makes it difficult to shift the public’s response to the issue (^{Gobierno de México, 2022}; ^{Secretaría de Educación Pública, 2023}; ^{Secretaría de Gobernación, 2023}). On the contrary, Marsh (cited in ^{Macy, 2022}) argues: “Very often, people think that no one recovers from this disease [addiction], so if we don’t highlight recovery stories, the perception is that the only end to this is prison or death, and that’s simply not true” (p. 19).

Unfortunately, the federal government’s campaign “En el mundo de las drogas no hay final feliz” (In the world of drugs, there is no happy ending) perpetuates the stigma and criminalization of addiction. It relies on an appealing, media-popular aesthetic without fully understanding—or perhaps overlooking—the complexity of how these messages are received by young people, as well as the underlying reasons for drug use and trafficking.

Almost the entire prevention strategy targets the young population, assuming a rational cost- benefit analysis regarding the decision to use drugs. However, the reality is that most opioid users on the border, particularly in Tijuana, are individuals living on the streets, many of whom have experienced traumatic deportation processes (^{París Pombo & Pérez Floriano, 2015}). Given the brief airtime of the spots on public television and their limited exposure in schools, it is clear that these messages rarely reach those most at risk. It is as if the dominant discourse surrounding fentanyl prevention is focused solely on saving lives that would be mourned, while those already trapped in the cycle of addiction are viewed as expendable, “bare life” (^{Butler, 2010}). The Si te drogas, te dañas (If you do drugs, you harm yourself) series targets middle-class youth, for whom the risk of fentanyl and other substances lies in misinformation or deliberate deception (^{Secretaría de Educación Pública, 2023}).

On the other hand, the Testimonios series uses “addiction porn” to depict ruined individuals whose lives are nearly destroyed. In one testimony, Yair states, “I am already a rotten person, don’t do anything to fix me” (^{Sistema de Educación Media Superior de la Universidad de Guadalajara, 2020, 00:21}). In the era of fentanyl, the addiction regime perpetuates discourses around consumption, addiction, and its treatment in a way that creates contentious language (^{Roseberry, 2002}), which regulates the social meaning of drugs while legitimizing the state’s differentiated approach to managing populations involved in various forms of the trafficking economy. As such, this campaign functions as a cultural mediation mechanism of the addiction regime, contributing to the management and indirect exploitation of precarious populations, effectively extracting value through drug consumption and reinforcing certain social values in the media representations of users (^{Fuentes Díaz, 2020}).

It is not surprising that one of the spots from the Si te drogas, te dañas series compares methamphetamine addiction to its use in warfare during World War II:

The Nazis created methamphetamines to turn their soldiers into tireless and dehumanized beings. Under its effect, the Nazi army started the worst war in history and created extermination camps. Today, crystal meth is used to control the minds of young people seeking pleasure, as well as day laborers and maquiladora workers who need energy to work day and night. (^{Gobierno de México, 2021, 00:01})

The military analogy legitimizes a dual strategy: on one hand, prevention aimed at the lives of young people who are seen as valuable; on the other, a repressive approach toward those already addicted, as well as dealers and traffickers, whose only fate is death or self-destruction.

On the border, the lives that often go unnoticed received the campaign too late, and their fate seems to be tied to what could be called “addiction porn”—a path of ruin with no way out. Yuri, a 25-year-old woman living in the Zona Norte of Tijuana, a region notorious for its high levels of prostitution, drug sales, and related violence, began using crystal meth at 16. For the past three years, she has exclusively smoked fentanyl, known on the street as China White. When asked about the risks of overdose, she responded:

Well, I only smoke China now, look [shows a small pink bar of content]. I’ve never really gotten messed up, it all depends on how you use it, some people put a ton and yeah, they fade out […] and you gotta slap them or splash some water on them [laughs]. I only once felt like I was going out, but a friend slapped me and I woke up like, “What the hell?”, but that’s it. I only smoke China now, ‘cause the effect is faster and stronger. Before I only used crystal, but not anymore, now it’s all China […] the problem is it wears off fast, and you gotta buy more […] it lasts about four hours for me, so yeah, I gotta save up some cash […] it costs 50 pesos for the little bag. (Yuri, personal communication, February 20, 2023)

Yuri says she lives with her family and meets with friends to use drugs in shared rooms, hotels, or specific spots in the alleys of Zona Norte. Her conversation is erratic and at times delirious, claiming to own several hotels in Tijuana and to be a business partner of Carlos Slim. Whenever we spoke with her, she mentioned that she was waiting for some earnings that her sister insists on not giving her. On one occasion, she even invited us to vacation in the coastal town of San Felipe to stay in an apartment that, she says, “my friend Ernesto lets me use, do you know him? […] Peña Nieto.” (Yuri, personal communication, February 10, 2023). It was impossible to determine whether Yuri’s mental deterioration is solely due to her fentanyl addiction or if it stems from an underlying condition; it is likely that both factors have mutually reinforced each other. To support her addiction, Yuri prostitutes herself on the streets of Zona Norte. She even mentions that sometimes young people in luxury cars take her to orgies in various hotels in Tijuana, events she doesn’t remember much about, since she always consumes fentanyl. Yuri is unconcerned about the risk of overdose and consumes China, fully aware of what it contains. While one might assume that knowledge of fentanyl’s risks would deter its use, some studies show the opposite (^{Bailey et al., 2022}).

One might think that overdose deaths would deter customers from dealers whose clients die, but anecdotal evidence suggests the opposite. Opioid addicts are so desperate to feel numb that they see death as a sign that the supply source is desirable, the “real thing.” (^{Case & Deaton, 2020, p. 120})

Addiction has its own rationality, one that is not reflected in the spots created by the Ministry of Health. The last time we spoke with Yuri was in May 2024, and she was pregnant. She said she had gotten pregnant out of love and assured us: “I know whose it is, I know it’s that guy’s” (Yuri, personal communication, May 9, 2024), referring to a man without a name, the father of a baby who will most likely be born with fentanyl withdrawal syndrome (^{Grisel, 2019}).

Alongside the conscious use of fentanyl, there are users of non-opioid substances who unknowingly consume drugs contaminated with or substituted by fentanyl. Violeta is a 35-year- old woman from a working-class neighborhood in Monterrey, Nuevo León. Due to family issues and what seems to be her use of methamphetamine, she left her three teenage children with her mother and moved to Tijuana. She claims to have incomplete studies in administration and has worked in various companies and maquiladoras in both Monterrey and Tijuana. For the past two years, she has been living in a hotel in the Zona Norte, and at night she walks the streets looking for clients, prostituting herself to pay for her room, drugs, and a meal each day. Violeta has been sexually abused on several occasions, two of which occurred when she worked in bars in the Zona Norte. To cope with the painful memories of family abandonment, poor jobs, and the sexual abuse she has endured, Violeta has been smoking meth for several years, and fentanyl has never caught her interest:

I was never really into that Chiva they call [heroin], I just smoke crystal, and honestly, it’s way more chill. Back in La Campanera [a popular neighborhood in Monterrey], I remember it was all wild with the homies, I even smoked with Babo, the singer from Cartel de Santa [hip-hop group], and with the fat guy, the one they call Millonario, that fucking pig [laughs]. I know them, I even got pics with them and all that […] but since I got to Tijuana, I just smoke to chill, that stuff relaxes me real good, I forget about everything […] all that bullshit that happened to me […] now crystal just relaxes me, it doesn’t get me crazy […] in general, with the people I smoke with, it’s all chill guys, that shit just relaxes all of us. (Violeta, personal communication, April 15, 2024)

However, methamphetamine is a stimulant drug, not a relaxant (^{Grisel, 2019}). It is highly likely that what Violeta and her friends are smoking is methamphetamine contaminated with fentanyl or, possibly, small doses of the opioid. Given the lack of institutional harm reduction strategies in Tijuana, such as substance testing, users often have no idea what they are actually consuming— something that has been well-documented (^{Fleiz et al., 2020}; ^{Bailey et al., 2022}; ^{Friedman et al., 2022}, ²⁰²³; ^{Magis Rodríguez et al., 2022}). The trauma she has experienced, her precarious situation as a sex worker, and her addiction have made it even harder for her to secure formal employment, despite her repeated attempts at various maquiladoras in Tijuana. Violeta buys at least two packets of meth a day, each costing 50 pesos, offering an immediate, inexpensive, and potentially fatal escape from the overwhelming hopelessness that defines her life.

Although there is no scientific consensus on the causes of addiction, it is widely accepted that the convergence of genetic, psychological, and environmental factors increases the risk of substance dependence, though not everyone becomes addicted (^{Grisel, 2019}). Various studies indicate that the loss of meaning in life, particularly in the context of relative precariousness, plays a significant role in the rise of drug addiction. ^{Jennifer Silva (2019)} found that the denial of dignity and social recognition has been a powerful catalyst for the opioid crisis in former coal mining communities in the eastern United States, now deindustrialized. This has contributed to a crisis of meaning among their residents, who endure precarious jobs that offer little respect.

It is no coincidence that the rise in fentanyl and other substance use is primarily observed among individuals who have fallen into states of despair or, more accurately, hopelessness. Floating populations, migrants in transit, deportees, maquiladora workers displaced from their origins who are unable to establish a sense of labor dignity or social recognition in the city, and others are part of this reality. This is further exacerbated by the constant harassment and violence from law enforcement structures targeting some of these populations (^{Morales et al., 2020}; ^{Villafuerte Guillén & Pacheco Gómez, 2022}).

All these conditions are concentrated and intensified at the northern border of Mexico, as several studies have documented (^{Solís, 2009}; ^{Acosta et al., 2012}; ^{Medrano Villalobos, 2013}; ^{Soto, 2013}; ^{Contreras Velasco, 2016}; ^{Velasco & Albicker, 2016}; ^{Del Monte Madrigal, 2021}; ^{Hernández-Hernández, 2021}). Opioid overdose deaths (due to heroin and/or fentanyl), as well as the rise in consumption of other substances like crystal meth, are expressions of a growing sense of despair and hopelessness among very specific populations. However, the economic conditions of the country (^{Orraca Romano & Iriarte Rivas, 2019}), combined with the highly addictive nature of substances like fentanyl, especially now that it is mixed into other drugs, make these addictions a risk that must be urgently addressed.

This issue is not about uninformed or misled individuals taking a wrong path, nor is it merely a media spectacle focused on the “pornography of addiction” that perpetuates sensationalist imagery surrounding drug trafficking, its victims, and perpetrators. On the contrary, our study shows that the growing presence of fentanyl in border cities like Tijuana is a symptom of worsening structural conditions of despair and hopelessness, along with the fatalities they cause. While, at the very least, the consumption of fentanyl and other substances on the northern border of the country should serve as a warning, it is not simply a crisis stemming from poor decisions made by uninformed youth. Instead, it acts as a stark reminder of the rising structural conditions of hopelessness in Mexico, particularly among vulnerable populations in the border region and other parts of the country.

The experiences of Yuri and Violeta illustrate how addiction is intensified in situations of hopelessness, particularly when gender-based conditions are involved. Neither of them was aware of the government campaign, and contrary to its claims, fentanyl consumption does not symbolize any risk for them. Instead, their conscious use of China White and crystal meth represents a specific kind of freedom—a brief respite from the oppressive and violent conditions they face daily. According to their accounts, this is something they share with others they meet to use drugs. Unlike the grim portrayal of addiction in government ads, they view their consumption as a temporary escape from their harsh realities, a momentary reprieve from despair and hopelessness.

Due to space limitations, it is not possible to delve deeper into the interviews. However, we propose the following hypothesis: In contexts of extreme precarity and violence, such as the border areas of Zona Norte in Tijuana, the contradictions between institutional and hegemonic representations of addiction and its actors, on one hand, and the concrete conditions, practices, and meanings of drug consumption, on the other, reveal the functioning of mediation mechanisms within a specific sector (partial regime) of the capitalist economy.

These contradictions highlight what has been referred to here as the “addiction regime,“ specifically addressing the cultural mediation mechanisms through which actors, actions, and substances in the global drug economy are symbolically and discursively (re)produced. However, the functioning and perpetuation of this addiction regime in the era of fentanyl is closely tied to the reproduction of conditions of despair and hopelessness that make addiction, at least momentarily, a source of freedom or escape for users. Without these structural conditions, it is likely that the addiction regime would take on different characteristics, as seen with substances like tobacco, alcohol, and, more recently, marijuana.