By: Insight Crime
June 17, 2025
The Rivera Hernández neighborhood in the Honduran city of San Pedro Sula is no ordinary place. It is the wounded heart of San Pedro Sula, the most dangerous part of what has been dubbed “the city of bandits,” once considered the most violent city in the world. Here, under the mantra “We were born to die,” gangs like the Locos de Vesubio push back against the expansion of California-born groups, primarily the Mara Salvatrucha (MS13) and Barrio 18.
That very mantra inspired the title of Juan José Martínez d’Aubuisson’s latest book, “He Who’s Afraid to Die Shouldn’t Be Born” (“El que tenga miedo a morir que no nazca”), which explores the complex dynamics between local gangs and the MS13 and Barrio 18 in Rivera Hernández. After ten years of fieldwork, Martínez brings together journalism and ethnography to offer a different lens on organized crime in San Pedro Sula.
InSight Crime spoke with him about his field experience and how criminality and street violence are evolving in Rivera Hernández.
InSight Crime (IC): Compared to your previous book, A Year Inside MS-13: See, Hear, and Shut Up (Ver, oír y callar. Un año con la Mara Salvatrucha 13), which documented a year embedded with that criminal organization, what was the most difficult moment you faced during your research for this latest work?
Juan José Martínez d’Aubuisson (JM)*: One of the biggest challenges wasn’t what I saw, it was how I wrote it. I had to find a subtle but accurate way to connect present-day violence and criminality with their historical roots, giving them proper context without exaggeration or omission and avoiding flawed interpretations. For example, I found it especially difficult to draw a connection between the arrival of banana companies in the late 19th century and today’s high levels of criminal violence in San Pedro Sula. Another major challenge was explaining how the portrayal of gangs in Hollywood films has shaped the collective imagination and the particular profile of gang structures in this Honduran city.
IC: During your research for this book, was there an experience that challenged your initial perception of street crime and violence in Honduras?
JM: I had previously studied MS13 and Barrio 18 in Guatemala and El Salvador. One day during my fieldwork in San Pedro Sula, a member of MS13 took me to El Ocotillo — the city’s garbage dump, which is currently under the gang’s control. At one point, I asked him a routine question I usually pose during interviews: “Where were you jumped in?” — a common expression referring to the gang’s initiation rite. But he didn’t seem to understand. Confused, he finally replied, “I’m not in MS13. I work for MS13!”
That answer was deeply revealing. I realized that the time of the gangs as a place of belonging or identity was over. MS13, once a refuge for youths facing family breakdown or economic precariousness, had undergone a process of Westernization and capitalization, transforming into a “criminal enterprise with gang origins.” Rituals and encrypted language no longer had a place in a gang once rooted in California’s street culture. Now, it is money — la plata — that guides the gang’s criminal and violent efficiency, displacing any remaining traces of the identity-based culture that once defined it.
IC: The book illustrates how MS13 and Barrio 18 have come to dominate street crime not just in San Pedro Sula, but across Honduras. How did they consolidate such power? Are there major differences between the two organizations?
JM: MS13 has achieved near-total domination. When I returned to Rivera Hernández a few months ago, I saw that dozens of local gang groups that once operated there had been wiped out.
As part of its Westernization and capitalization process, MS13 now operates as a much more sophisticated structure with state backing and political ties. Barrio 18, by contrast, is on the verge of extinction. It lacks institutional support and remains tied to more traditional gang practices that prevent it from evolving into a criminal enterprise. Unlike MS13, Barrio 18 still holds on to its symbolic system and identity-based logic, which keeps it rooted in its original form.
SEE ALSO: How the MS13 Became Lords of the Trash Dump in Honduras
IC: Why does MS13 seem to benefit from state support while Barrio 18 does not? What is the nature of this symbiotic relationship between MS13 and the state?
JM: You could say they chose each other — organized crime and politics in Honduras are part of the same system. Today, it’s impossible to consolidate political power without some link to drug trafficking structures. And you can’t thrive in the drug trade without political access. In 2014, “Porky,” whom I mention in the book, bet on forging a relationship with the government. He gained access to prison concessions and earned massive profits. MS13 has come to fully understand its role as a criminal enterprise. It has diversified its investments — it now controls funeral homes, recycling centers, houses, hospitals, and gas stations.
A key point is that extortion is no longer its lifeline. Violence is no longer the default tool — it is now utilitarian. MS13 uses it only when its economic mechanisms for generating revenue fail. Barrio 18, on the other hand, continues to use violence impulsively, which leads to frequent clashes with authorities and has blocked its transition to a more business-like model — limiting its chances of survival.
SEE ALSO: New Narco Video Scandal Spotlights Selective Justice in Honduras
IC: In the book, you accompany migrant caravans of people forced to flee their homes in search of safety in the United States. How can we analyze the social factors linking criminality and migration without falling into simplistic narratives that criminalize migrants?
JM: This isn’t a new narrative. Deportations from the United States have long been violent and highly targeted, but today that rhetoric is being expressed more openly and with less scrutiny. The criminalization of migration has been a constant — and all signs indicate it will continue, likely with even graver consequences.
IC: In your book, you also criticize how some international media have approached criminality in Honduras using sensationalist and sometimes unethical narratives. How can journalists responsibly report on violence and crime without resorting to spectacle or compromising the ethical core of the profession?
JM: We have to confront a logic that is deeply rooted in some major North American and European media outlets. These narratives sensationalize violence in Latin America while failing to fully recognize the humanity of the people they depict. It’s as if we’re not entirely human — just quasi-human. The lives of people in these communities seem to be worth less, narratively speaking. That’s why we have a responsibility to question not just the facts we report, but how we engage with the marginalized and how we choose to represent them.
Juan José Martínez d’Aubuisson collaborates with InSight Crime on reports and investigations.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length.