Has Mexico Become a Narco State?

The question of whether Mexico is a narcoestado has stalked the country for decades. Under President Claudia Sheinbaum, it has stopped being an abstraction and become the defining accusation of her first year in office. Opposition senators call her compromised. Narcomantas carrying her name have appeared in cartel strongholds. U.S. officials describe joint operations, while she insists no special DEA deal exists. And still, journalists are murdered for exposing cartels and the politicians who shield them.

“Mexicans are afraid of the alliance between the Mexican government and the cartels.”
“Most Mexicans would welcome U.S. help. The only ones who don’t are the narco-politicians, including President Sheinbaum.” — Senator Lilly Téllez, Fox Noticias interview, August 2025

Sheinbaum insists she stands for cero impunidad. But the record — and the allegations — tell another story: governors flagged but never charged, a murdered party financier whose shadow still looms, and cartel propaganda that speaks to the presidency directly.

“Los mensajes no necesariamente dicen la verdad.”
“The messages do not necessarily tell the truth.” — Claudia Sheinbaum, on narcomantas naming her

In January, banners appeared across bridges in Sinaloa and Baja California Sur with the president’s name scrawled across them, some attributed to La Chapiza, the faction run by El Chapo’s sons. Sheinbaum dismissed them with one line: “The messages do not necessarily tell the truth.”

The mantas prove nothing about her, but their very existence signals how emboldened cartels feel to treat the presidency itself as a faction in their war.

Sheinbaum has promised “zero impunity.” But when reports surfaced in early 2025 that intelligence had flagged Rubén Rocha Moya, the Morena governor of Sinaloa, for alleged favoritism toward traffickers, she defended him. She has said repeatedly that there is no evidence against Rocha and no open investigation.

In Tamaulipas, Governor Américo Villarreal has faced longstanding whispers about Gulf Cartel ties. Villarreal rejects the claims, and no new legal action has emerged.

And in the background is Sergio Carmona, the “rey del huachicol,” assassinated in 2021. Investigations at the time described how he funneled money from fuel theft into politics. Morena’s Mario Delgado denied wrongdoing. Sheinbaum has not commented.

“La campaña de Claudia Sheinbaum recibió dinero del Cártel de Sinaloa.”
“Claudia Sheinbaum’s campaign received money from the Sinaloa Cartel.” — Anabel Hernández, investigative journalist

In late 2024, journalist Anabel Hernández alleged that Sheinbaum’s presidential campaign received money from the Sinaloa Cartel. The president denied it. No court has opened a case, and no evidence has been tested.

The claim remains unproven. But its amplification by opposition figures, combined with narcomantas naming the president, has kept the allegation alive in public discourse.

Sheinbaum has cast her presidency as a defense of sovereignty. In August 2025, she denied knowledge of a reported DEA program dubbed “Project Portero.” She said no such DEA agreement exists. At the same time, she has acknowledged that U.S. surveillance drones have long operated in Mexico under bilateral arrangements.

Extraditions tell the other half of the story. In February 2025, Mexico extradited 29 suspects to the U.S. In August, another 26 followed. These transfers required U.S. assurances that the death penalty would not be sought. For Sheinbaum, they serve as proof of cooperation on her terms.

By the numbers, her government touts a roughly 25% drop in intentional homicides since late 2024 and drug seizures totaling nearly 180 tonnes by mid-2025. Critics say statistics cannot erase perception: that violence remains localized but acute, journalists continue to die, and cartel propaganda remains unchallenged.

Then came the case no one could spin away. On August 25, Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada — the co-founder and longest-surviving leader of the Sinaloa Cartel — stood in a U.S. courtroom and pleaded guilty. For decades, Zambada had evaded both Mexican and American authorities. He never spent a day in a Mexican prison. His first conviction came not in Mexico City but in Brooklyn.

Appearing before Judge Brian M. Cogan in federal court, the 75-year-old Zambada listened through a Spanish interpreter and admitted what he had spent half a century denying.

“Empecé a involucrarme con las drogas ilegales en 1969, cuando tenía 19 años, y sembré marihuana por primera vez.”
“I started getting involved with illegal drugs in 1969, when I was 19 years old, and I planted marijuana for the first time.” — Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada, courtroom statement

“Reconozco el gran daño que las drogas ilegales han hecho al pueblo de Estados Unidos, de México y de otros lugares.”
“I recognize the great harm that illegal drugs have done to the people of the United States, of Mexico, and elsewhere.” — Zambada, in court

“Asumo la responsabilidad de mi papel en todo esto y pido disculpas a todos los que han sufrido o han sido afectados por mis acciones.”
“I take responsibility for my role in all of it and I apologize to everyone who has suffered or been affected by my actions.” — Zambada, in court

The guilty plea capped a saga as bizarre as it was bloody. In 2024, Zambada was kidnapped by Joaquín Guzmán López, the son of El Chapo, and lured onto a Beechcraft King Air. When the plane landed outside El Paso, U.S. agents arrested them both.

The fallout plunged Sinaloa into chaos. A war erupted between factions loyal to El Mayo — Los Mayos — and those aligned with El Chapo’s sons, Los Chapitos. Businesses shuttered, the state’s economy stalled, and gunfire echoed through Culiacán. Under heavy pressure from Washington, Sheinbaum ordered thousands of troops into Sinaloa to contain the violence.

From the courtroom, Zambada acknowledged not only the trafficking but also the corruption that allowed it to thrive:

“La organización que dirigí promovió la corrupción en mi país natal pagando a policías, comandantes militares y políticos que nos permitieran operar libremente.”
“The organization I led promoted corruption in my home country by paying police, military commanders and politicians that would allow us to operate freely.” — Zambada, in court

His lawyer, Frank Perez, echoed the contrition:

“Acepta plena responsabilidad por lo que hizo mal.”
“He has accepted full responsibility for what he did wrong.” — Frank Perez, defense lawyer

And to the people of Sinaloa, Perez issued an appeal:

“Nada se gana con el derramamiento de sangre; sólo profundiza las heridas y prolonga el sufrimiento.”
“Nothing is gained by bloodshed; it only deepens the wounds and prolongs suffering.” — Frank Perez, addressing Sinaloa residents

For Mexico, the symbolism was devastating. The man who co-founded the Sinaloa Cartel, who built an empire through murder and bribery, was never tried at home. His confession came in New York, under American law.

Since 2000, more than 160 journalists have been murdered in Mexico. Over a hundred of those killings occurred under Peña Nieto and López Obrador. Between October 2024 and July 2025, eight more reporters were murdered. In Guerrero, José Carlos González covered municipal corruption in Chilpancingo, while Ronald Paz wrote about the Tlacos and Ardillos. In Michoacán, Guillermo Alcaraz investigated CJNG extortion schemes, and Juan Martínez examined political corruption in Zamora. In Tabasco, Julio de la Cruz wrote about narco-linked officials. In Baja California Sur, Patricia Aguilar tracked smuggling routes around La Paz. In Zacatecas, Sergio Rueda reported on cartel incursions into mining towns. In Sonora, Gabriela Rojas documented the conflict between the Sinaloa and Caborca cartels.

Two of those reporters were enrolled in the federal protection mechanism. Both were murdered anyway.

The narcoestado label remains more rhetorical than legal. Mexico’s institutions continue to function, but each manta, each journalist’s death, each contradiction between sovereignty and cooperation narrows the distance. And when Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada pleaded guilty in Brooklyn after never facing trial in Mexico, the symbolism was undeniable.

Sheinbaum promises cero impunidad (zero impunity). The question for her presidency is whether anyone still believes it.