Day 5 – Monday, Sept 16thThe 22nd Oakland International Film Festival screens at Northeastern University. The 8:45 p.m. screening kicks-off with a short films “Above The Roots”, short film “Collateral” and feature foreign film “Stampila”

How do civilians perceive members of the Armed Forces? Who are the human beings wearing a military uniform? These questions have stayed with me since a stint working as a human rights defender some twenty years ago. The uniform, it seemed, sparks reactions ranging from mistrust and fear of soldiers’ capacity for violence to respect and admiration for their sacrifices. In the decades since, I have pursued academic research on iron fist gang policies in northern Central America. This highly repressive, often militarized anti-crime strategy has found fertile ground in Latin America. The countries in the region have become democracies but may retain, as does Mexico, an authoritarian political culture – citizens are accustomed to, and often approve of, strongmen who promise law and order.

Playing the tough-on-crime card is tempting for leaders who seek short-term political credit and have no incentives to tackle long-term structural problems. Militarized security policies are highly symbolic and denote a decisiveness to act. They resonate deeply with citizens who are tired of chronic insecurity, even as abundant research evidence shows that such strategies contribute to violence and human rights abuses. Whatever civilians may think of the Armed Forces, there appears to be little interest in how the institution prepares its members for violence and how their experiences shape them.

Ex-President Felipe Calderón launched Mexico’s “war on drugs” in late 2006, at a time when he had just assumed office and his main opponent claimed fraud. Military participation in public security tasks was meant to last only as long as it would take for police reforms to be carried out. But the armed conflict has continued under different administrations; the current President, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, has even expanded the role and resources of the Armed Forces in unprecedented ways. Over the years, as the criminal groups fragmented and proliferated, the violence rose sharply across the country.

With more than 433,000 homicides and more than 110,000 disappearances, the human cost of the drug war has been nothing short of devastating. These abstract numbers, however, mask unimaginable acts of brutality. The reality of torture and murder, of lives extinguished, has even coined a “narco-vocabulary” that has made its way into the everyday language of Mexicans. Villas de Salvárcar, San Fernando, Allende, Cadereyta, Ayotzinapa, Camargo, and many others have become places that conjure up atrocities. Each time a tragedy occurs Mexico, it seems, sinks further into the abyss and can no longer find its way out of the darkness.

Even more heinous than the violence is the callousness of the state that allows these acts to continue to happen. The impunity and anguish are such that the families of the disappeared have taken it on themselves to search for their loved ones, at great risk – ten women searchers have been killed over the past 13 years. The critical voices and occasional sparks of public outrage have done little to persuade politicians to bring the drug war to an end. Instead, the violence has been normalized. The physical violence, that is. The mental injuries of the conflict are less visible and less talked about, but no less damaging.

In 2008 I moved to Mexico where my research took me to different sites, including Ciudad Juárez, a border city that experienced extreme levels of violence in the early years of the drug war. Gradually, I realized that my exposure to the daily outpouring of news about the militarized strategy against organized crime was beginning to affect me. My own reactions to the violence prompted me to pay closer attention to the collective trauma it generates. The strain on civilians –grieving relatives, shootout drills at schools– is regularly highlighted by the media.

A hidden story of the conflict for me is the military trauma. Initially, I was interested in understanding why soldiers had killed innocent civilians in places such as Tlatlaya and Nuevo Laredo. During my time with the Drug Policy Program at Mexico’s CIDE, a public policy research center, I reviewed unpublished interviews with soldiers that formed the basis of La Tropa: Por qué mata un soldado. The book, by Daniela Rea and Pablo Ferri, tries to explain how things such as training, orders, and the construction of the enemy might contribute to such murders. Reading the testimonies, I was struck by how soldiers may end up facing diverse mental health challenges.

Collateral revolves around Adrián, a veteran who is struggling with the trauma from his involvement in the drug war. When he gets to know Nayeli, a mother who is searching for her disappeared son, Adrián and Nayeli both begin to understand what the violence has done to the other person. Soldiers are typically portrayed to us as brave fighters who bottle up their emotions, rather than human beings who can be vulnerable and feel safe to ask for support. Unlike the United States, where military mental health studies, care and reporting are relatively common, Mexico has a lot more work to do when it comes to removing the stigma surrounding mental health issues and treatment.

The film lends itself to broader reflections about the drug war: The myth that a militarized security policy will impede drug trafficking. The fact that governments need to strengthen civilian institutions and tackle corruption. The idea that countries ought to consider legally regulating drug markets and implementing strategies that reduce the risks of drug use. Above all, however, my hope is that the film will add a layer of complexity to our understanding of how the violence has touched people’s lives. The pain of civilians is a necessary story, but it is one we are familiar with. The experiences of soldiers are a story that deserves to be told and heard with equal empathy. Collateral alludes to the idea of “collateral damage,” the “unavoidable” consequences of war. The film is an invitation to ask which costs are acceptable and which are not, to ask who the victims are in Mexico’s conflict and how we can respond to them with greater compassion.