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In Broad Daylight May 27, 2023

The assailant was 20-something and had short black hair.  He wore black pants and black shirt, sneakers, and he had an old backpack, grey or maybe blue.  And that would have been the extent of my description, if anyone would have asked me.  As it was, the theft of one cell phone from the hand of an old man seated on a step went off without a hitch, in no small part thanks to me.

I was the closest to the assault, which happened only a few minutes ago, on a closed stretch of Calle Hidalgo next to the Zocalo.  Even now I replay the quick series of events and realize I could have been a real hero today.  I would be celebrated for my defense of a vulnerable old man.  They would carry me down Calle Cinco de Mayo on a flatbed truck generally reserved for Jesus impersonators.  The horns and clarinets would wail, the marching drums would rattle the ground, and a spinning white globe would lead the charge.  I would, of course, accept the honors with grace worthy of a crime-fighter.

But I am no crime-fighter.  There will be no medals or key to the city, chiefly because I did virtually nothing to interrupt the crime.  In my defense, I can only say that it is the old man’s fault.  If he had resisted the theft in any way, say, by grabbing at his phone, or even by voicing alarm, the reality of the situation would have registered with me more immediately.  Instead, the old man did nothing after the young man snatched the phone, at least not at first.  Indeed, at first, he stared at his empty hand, as if he had not yet accepted that it was gone.  Even after he finally turned his head and looked at the man scuttling away, he said nothing, causing me to still question whether the two knew each other.  Only when he finally called out something unintelligible did I yell, “Ladron!”

This changed everything on the otherwise indifferent street.  Several  women were standing on the corner of Armenta y Lopez as the perpetrator made his way through them, and they all raised their hands to point and hollar at him.  Store owners stepped out on the sidewalk to scream alarm, and passing car horns added to the call for assistance.  But it was too late.  The guy was gone, somewhere in the direction of my address.  The old man just shook his head, as others consoled him and called the police.  The investigators would surely have questions.  Young, black hair, nondescript clothes, old sneakers and backpack—round up the usual suspects, which, in my estimation, may amount to half the people in my neighborhood.

All of this unfolded within a block of the heavily armed Palacio Municipal.  However, the brawny security officers with assault rifles and helmets were not about to abandon their posts for such a petty offense, as they had a governor to defend.  It is the cost of living in the city center, En Centro, a poor neighborhood but with many rich visitors.  And one old Oaxaqueño gentleman lost his prized phone because of it, in broad daylight, beside the seat of power.

The retired American couple living near us had moved to downtown Oaxaca two years ago, but the stress became too much for the wife.  She became terrified of going outside alone, and her little dog did not do much better.  Without language and with growing paranoia, she finally had enough and went back to the States recently, apparently for good.  Her husband, Taigen, has remained here, alone, where he plans his next adventure in Central America, perhaps Antigua, Guatemala.  If he is at all nervous about the security situation down south, he does not show it. 

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