(Before It's News)
Father Gregorio López Gerónimo | Translated by Valor for Borderland Beat
Today, February 24, 2017, four years after the surgeon, in the repletion of violence and impunity, he left his practice and joined the men and women who decided to leave their anonymity and cowardice to be the voice of those “without voice”; after his heroic deed, José Manuel Mireles Valverde is dead and nothing could be expected from the criminal government of Enrique Peña Nieto, who has murdered him as he did with the 43 young men of Ayotzinapa, and as with other innocents in Tatlaya, Tanuhato y Apatzingán.
Only a state crime of such magnitude is possible, when the government is usurped by those who do not possess the slightest intuition of law, justice, dignity, or human rights. Foolishness is abused when someone is condemned to life imprisonment when that person is recognized for his innocence and courage, leaving in exchange seven free and covered up former governors in payment for political favors and who have plunged 39 million inhabitants, from the states that they have stolen from, into misery.
An outrage is also committed when the privileges of house arrest is granted to Elba Esther Gordillo, who today has 20 million children falling behind in education; as well as when in Michoacán, it releases another scum of the same party of the institutionalized corruption for seven thousand pesos.
For the current administration, it is not a crime to steal education and the future of a generation, to wring out jobs and the livelihood of a people, nor to collaborate with criminal organizations in the disappearance of more than three thousand Michoacanos. However, it takes a weapon, to defend itself in a failed state, where there was no law, no justice, and no rule of law; only corruption, impunity, kidnappings, uprisings, and deaths.
Four years after the historic February 24, 2013, Mireles has died for defending life. His agony began on June 27, 2014, when Alfredo Castillo took him to jail so that he wouldn’t interfere with the Port of Lázaro Cárdenas, where the juicy businesses of the dominant cartel are. From that moment, Mireles began to be veiled by the Mexican people; unaware that that’s how it was done while he reviewed the media obituary in the police sections of the newspapers.
Mireles is dead to the media, for those who stopped being news like the one that rots in the dark and does not fertilize red events or important dates that keep it in the sideboard.
Mireles has died and they have been killing him ever since their lawyers, for whom we do not know for sure whether the doctor is a showcase to sell or an important trial, one of many, of which give them popularity.
Mireles has died and it is not known whether he was poisoned or if he died crushed by the meaningless paperwork and denying him basic care, the same basic care that criminals are granted.
Mireles has died and from the day of his apprehension in La Mira, Michoacán; “this dictatorship throwing him, already had him in its eye,” that he’ll leave jail with his feet in front of him, on a stretcher, with an important entourage of people in pain, howling, shouting, empowered by their rancid tradition and media opportunism.
Mireles has died, rest in peace since then, since he stepped foot in jail. Rest in peace amidst the vivid impunity of the thousands of white-collar criminals; of those who are the bulwark of the new cartels, since they have the try of the “Fuero” (Forajidos Usurpadores del Estado para Robar Organizadamente) (Outlaw Usurpers of the State to Steal in an Organized Way).
Mireles has died. He rests in his delirium, knowing that Mexican justice is bound by factual powers, those that prevent his judgement to be resolved in good deal, because it is convenient for them, because he treads on many calluses, because they themselves would be imprisoned.
Mireles has died and in the memory of millions of Michoacanos for whom he fought, today is a shadow and a silence that adorns his shroud.
Mireles has died. Every day, we are killing him, with our indifference, with our complicit silence, with our selective deafness, knowing that in our hands, we don’t have to write his epitaph, nor his obituary; we only need a date, the day and time of his funeral.