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CULIACÁN, Mexico — A convoy of semi-trucks rumbled out of Culiacán this week, carrying an unlikely group of passengers: elephants, jaguars, tigers, and monkeys. Their destination? A new wildlife refuge far from the cartel warfare engulfing Sinaloa’s capital.
The Ostok Sanctuary, once a quiet haven for rescued exotic animals and former narco pets, has become the latest casualty in a city overtaken by organized crime. After months of escalating violence between rival factions of the Sinaloa Cartel, sanctuary officials made a desperate decision: to evacuate the animals before the bloodshed claimed more lives—human or otherwise.
“We’ve never seen violence this extreme,” said Ernesto Zazueta, president of the Ostok Sanctuary. “We’re worried for the animals that come here to have a better future.”
A Region in Collapse
The violence surged eight months ago after the abduction of a cartel leader—allegedly handed over to U.S. authorities by a son of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán. Since then, Culiacán has spiraled into chaos. Heavily armed gunmen battle daily in the streets, and residents live under constant threat of extortion, kidnapping, and shootouts.
“Civilians are the ones paying the price,” said Mexican security analyst David Saucedo. “The cartels need money for war, and they’re targeting the population to get it.”
The Ostok Sanctuary lies near Jesús María, a known stronghold of the Los Chapitos cartel faction. That proximity has made the refuge an unintended frontline in the ongoing turf war. Workers describe bullets cracking nearby and days when food and medicine could not reach the animals due to blocked roads and cartel checkpoints.
Terror at the Refuge
For months, staff lived with the sound of gunfire and helicopters circling overhead. Some animals began losing fur and exhibiting signs of trauma. Two died due to stress and lack of supplies. One of the sanctuary’s elephants, Bireki, injured her foot in March. But no veterinarian—Mexican or foreign—was willing to enter the danger zone to treat her.
That moment, said Zazueta, was the breaking point. “We asked ourselves, what are we doing here? If we don’t leave, who will treat them?”
The sanctuary received no help from local authorities. Pleas to government officials went unanswered. In February, a masked gunman hijacked a sanctuary truck, stealing vital medicine and equipment used for rescues. Staff say threats have become routine. Anonymous callers warn of attacks, threaten to burn the sanctuary, or demand payment to spare the animals.
“I’ve had people call and tell me they know where I live,” said Diego García, one of the sanctuary’s rescue workers. “There’s no safe place in this city anymore.”
Escape to the Coast
The final evacuation was carried out without fanfare or public announcement—out of fear. Under the protection of Mexico’s National Guard, the sanctuary staff loaded hundreds of animals into shipping containers and set off toward Mazatlán, a coastal city several hours away where a new refuge awaited.
Some caretakers whispered reassurances to the animals as they loaded them into crates. “I’m going to be right here, no one will do anything to you,” one murmured to an elephant.
Mazatlán, while not untouched by cartel violence, is considered more stable than Culiacán. But García, who has watched criminal influence expand across Mexico, remains cautious.
“It’s at least more stable,” he said. “Because here, today, it’s just suffocating.”
A City on the Brink
Culiacán, once a showcase of cartel control and stability, has become a ghost town after dark. Schools close at the hint of violence. Families monitor shootouts like weather reports. Burned homes line the streets. Occasionally, bodies appear hanging from bridges.
“My son, my son, I’m here,” one mother cried out this week, kneeling beside her child’s bullet-riddled body as police stood by. “Why do the police do nothing?”
The exodus of the sanctuary’s 700 animals is symbolic of the city’s deeper unraveling. If even a refuge built for peace can’t survive, what hope remains for civilians caught in the crossfire?
“Culiacán is no longer safe for animals, or for people,” Zazueta said. “We had to go. Before it was too late.”
