Families scrape out a living together in slums of Juarez

JUAREZ, Mexico — In one of the poorest sections of Juarez, Maria Villalba watches her grandchildren on a dusty curb. A young woman supports her baby on a window sill behind heavy bars but steps back into the darkness as visitors approach. Villalba invites strangers into her tenement home.

They step under a crumbling wooden roof and over cracks in the concrete floor. Shower curtains divide sleeping areas.

In the hall, a hot-water heater teeters on broken rusty legs. A blender is plugged into an unprotected socket and is grinding tomatoes for salsa. In homes like these in the roughest Mexican neighborhoods, the distinction between outdoors and indoors becomes blurred.

Eight people live in this house in Rancho Anapra, the oldest section of Juarez.

American and Mexican officials issue warnings about this neighborhood. A Mexican drug cartel has escalated its activities. There are regular shootings, and the area has become increasingly dangerous.

Three years ago, on the edge of this neighborhood — at the exact border of Mexico and the United States — two FBI agents were severely beaten when a group of thieves dragged them back into Mexico during a sting operation.

There had been 122 train robberies in nine months just inside the United States, and American officials were investigating a band of thieves from Ranch Anapra who would break into the trains as they passed and throw out goods from the moving cars. Bandits had unhitched train cars in some cases, and Union Pacific had suffered about $1 million in losses.

But when 40 law enforcement agents launched a sting on trespassers, a crowd dragged the FBI agents into Mexico and assaulted them with pipes and rocks. Sixteen Mexicans were arrested following the assaults.

There is no indication of danger today.

Villalba offers strawberries and ushers guests into a cramped kitchen where sumptuous food is being prepared. Her daughter-in-law is mixing beef and onions for chili Colorado as an interpreter explains, "We are not the police."

Villalba's grown son is home today, resting in the back room watching television. He doesn't talk much. He seems skeptical of visitors. The children in the house are not. They play with a baby miniature Chihuahua running underfoot.

It is unclear how the family makes its money. The grandmother smiles and tells a translator how the family is made up. The 12-year-old washing dishes is the daughter of one of her children. A toddler belongs to another daughter, and the baby to her son. Corners have been carved out of the small spaces for beds and mattresses so everyone has a spot.

They all live here in the tiny house.

"Here," she said. "Everyone together."

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