“We believe in everything. Except humanity.” My Year with Santa Muerte Devotees
The following photo report is the result of nearly a year's effort. It’s as long as a life under a curse and contains testimonies from places a ‘mortal’ would rarely get to see. Hope you enjoy it.
What could be more condemnable than death? Perhaps the people who openly embrace it? They bring offerings, reaching out to her. Mother Death. La Flaca, Niña Blanca. Or simply – Santa Muerte. I spent a year documenting those who pray to Holy Death to uncover the secrets behind the mysterious veil surrounding them.
They are deemed condemnable, one might say. Their nature defies the patterns imposed by those who seek to command and manipulate the masses. To such rulers, these people are outlaws. Dangerous. Simply because they chose to live differently than what the powerful would prefer. In a fabricated world of ideals, there is no place for them. And who would care about those who don’t fit? Perhaps only Death herself, when she comes for them.
They walk towards her. They sense that no one else wants them anymore. Only death remains—holy Death, Santa Muerte, the patron saint of those abandoned by all others. She is the saint of the faithful, forbidden to pray to the elite of heaven.
In the Vatican, they are rejected for being – different. But they too want someone to lean on, someone they can trust not to turn away. In the end... that terrifying skeletal figure with a scythe, unlike biblical heroes, is not selective. She takes everyone. And they follow her. They trust her more than their own kind.
Vatican: A Macabre Symbol of the Narcos
"We are faithful to Santa Muerte!" someone from the group forming in front of the chapel exclaimed, their voice fading into the void of the shadowy Doctores district. Around twenty people of all ages gathered around the altar with the larger-than-life figure of Death for a group photo, as if it were the end of the school year. Someone added, "And that doesn’t mean we don’t believe in God! Respect us! We are devoted to Santa Muerte but still believe in God!"
There was a shy chuckle. A few passersby glanced over but quickly moved on, paying little attention. The infamous Doctores neighborhood is already too close to death, so there’s no need to get any nearer. But anyone stopping by the altar that April evening would have noticed a particularly festive atmosphere. They were celebrating the 22nd anniversary of this despised sanctuary of the damned. Blasphemers, as some might say.
Santa Muerte, also known as La Flaca (The Skinny) or Niña Blanca (The White Girl), is a well-known figure in Mexico. However, most of proper society looks down on her, or even fears her, due to the myths surrounding her. The Holy Father, as hypocrites from all corners of the world title the head of the most decrepit mafia in human history, has labeled Santa Muerte as a "macabre symbol" of drug traffickers and equated belief in her with Satanism.
Yet paradoxically, it is precisely the Vatican and its rigid rules that have driven many believers into her embrace. Santa Muerte does not condemn so-called sins like homosexuality, promiscuity, or disobedience. Unlike celibates in their robes, hiding their erected body parts, she is tolerant. Everyone finds refuge with her, regardless of how they conduct their lives. Santa Muerte is for all, just like death itself. So, those whom spiritual leaders from their golden palaces have shut the doors of heaven to, have found a saint who welcomes them with open arms: Death.
She is blamed for guarding the local drug traffickers and other sinners. I’ve met narcos who prayed to her. And I’ve met narcos who didn’t. I’ve also met many ordinary, decent people who prayed to her. And even more ordinary, decent people who didn’t. It’s like with any faith; everyone has their own approach to it.
One of my previous reportages about Santa Muerte:
We shouldn't dismiss the reputation of Santa Muerte, though. Deep in the underworld, among sicarios or those practicing dark magic, she is truly a revered figure. In the past, her altars have been found in the secret hideouts of criminals or cults, often accompanied by human remains, drugs, and weapons. However, this doesn’t mean we can label every Santa Muerte follower as a delinquent, as you’ll see in my report below.
I can only speak from my own experiences. After a year spent documenting a neighborhood chapel of Santa Muerte in the Doctores district of Ciudad de México, I’m certain of this: I’ve rarely met a group of people as warm, humble, and friendly as these devotees. Many of them became my friends, and I’d trust some with my life. Even though I came as an outsider and we hardly know each other, I believe – based on how I got to know them – they would gladly jump into the fire for me. Where I was, I encountered more humanity than I often see in "proper" society.
Christmas miracle
It was last Christmas. Even Ciudad de México felt the festive atmosphere, with winter sneaking into the city. At 2500 meters above sea level, the cold really bites. One evening, we headed downtown with friends to enjoy a warm drink and take in the Christmas decorations.
We drove through the Doctores neighborhood, the unwanted and hidden neighbor of the polished Roma area, which serves as a safe haven for the western elite amidst the unpredictable city. But the people of Doctores come from a different world. You can tell from their gaze that life doesn’t mess around there. The neighborhood, built at the end of the 19th century on a former cemetery exhumed after an earthquake, was meant to be a prominent residential zone and even had the latest hospital. Today, its faded glory is barely recognizable in the decaying buildings. Every corner has a funeral home, and sometimes it's hard to tell where the street ends and the morgue begins.
At one intersection, something unusual caught my eye. By a taco stand on the corner was a moped with a trailer. Atop it sat a skeletal figure in a dazzling robe, draped in lights like a Christmas tree. It resembled a fair more than an altar to feared sicarios. But there was something about it that kept me awake. I had to find out what it was and who was behind it.
At that time, I had been delving into the cult of Santa Muerte for quite some time. Its mysticism and the dubious characters it attracted fascinated me. I made repeated visits to Tepito, the feared neighborhood home to the city's largest cartel and the most famous Santa Muerte altar. But that place had become increasingly popular with curious outsiders, losing much of its original mystery. In Doctores, however, I found that sense of enigma again.
It wasn’t too difficult to track down where the Santa Muerte chapel was located in Doctores. I got a tip from a friend and decided to scope it out one day. Luck was on my side. As I arrived, I spotted the Santa Muerte cart disappearing behind the chapel gates. The building itself was an unassuming, weathered house, blending seamlessly with its neighbors, except for a sidewalk display case featuring three figures: Santa Muerte, Jesús Malverde, and San Judas Tadeo.
I lingered nearby, intrigued by sounds of activity from within. Eventually, a young man emerged, having just parked the mobile Santa Muerte cart. I struck up a conversation, explaining that I’d seen his cart previously and found it fascinating. I also mentioned my experience documenting the Santa Muerte in Tepito. Unfazed, he shared that they operated a Santa Muerte chapel, using the cart to engage believers on the streets. He invited me to join their gatherings, held on the 1st and 15th of each month.
A Warm Welcome Party
I returned at the next opportunity, January 15th. From the outside, you wouldn’t suspect the place to be a shrine. It resembled a garage tucked into the ground floor of a building from the neighborhood's golden age. Only upon closer inspection did the elaborately decorated altar at the back of the room come into view. Dominating the space was a nearly life-sized Santa Muerte figure, surrounded by smaller statues and ritual items. Adorned fabrics hung from the ceiling and walls, though the rest of the room appeared modest and understated.
Santa Muerte also had a revered neighbor. In an adjoining room stood another shrine, this time dedicated to Jesus Malverde, Mexican Robin Hood from the early 20th century. His rebellious, outlaw persona made him an icon for Mexican criminals and drug traffickers. In this room, a life-sized statue of him occupied a raised platform, flanked by three stern-looking busts. The walls were adorned with fake banknotes, candles flickered throughout, and the ground floor shelves offered figurines and amulets of both Santa Muerte and Malverde for sale.
At night, the place felt much more solemn than during the day. Truthfully, I approached it with some trepidation, fearing how the locals of Doctores might react to a random white guy snooping around.
By seven o’clock, small groups of attendees began arriving. To my relief, there were no tattooed faces or armed individuals like in Tepito. Instead, the atmosphere resembled a friendly neighborhood gathering. Well-dressed people with kind expressions greeted each other and chatted casually. If not for the dramatic decorations, you wouldn’t suspect this was the prelude to something labeled occultism.
Spotting a boy I had spoken to earlier, I approached him with an outstretched hand, signaling to onlookers that I wasn’t just a random gawker. A few curious glances lingered our way, but once people saw us chatting amicably, they lost interest.
“Do you think I could take some pictures here?” I asked hesitantly.
“Sure? Just be mindful of the believers so you don’t make them uncomfortable,” he replied.
Finally, I brought out my camera, carefully photographing only the décor to avoid offending anyone. I planned to include people in my shots only after they had grown accustomed to my presence.
“Don’t photograph that,” he cautioned as I eyed the area behind Santa Muerte. At the back of the room, a curtained alcove concealed possibly another larger-than-life figure, visible only through something that reminded long horns protruding from a head.
After thoroughly exploring the accessible areas, I returned to thank the boy. A woman soon joined us, exuding an unmistakable authority. Despite her unassuming appearance—missing teeth, cropped hair, and a grandmotherly apron—her commanding presence radiated respect. She bustled around with a lit cigarette, shouting orders while cheerfully greeting newcomers with a wrinkle-creased smile.
She informed her son that the ceremony was about to start and asked if everything was ready. “What about the stream?” she asked, to my surprise.
“Stream?” I echoed.
“Of course, everything needs to go global these days,” she quipped.
“Global where?” I asked.
“TikTok,” they both commented. “We stream all our ceremonies on TikTok so people can join remotely. And also to educate others—we want them to know we’re not any monsters.”
“Did you establish this altar?” I inquired.
“I did! Twenty-one years ago! Can you believe that? Twenty-one years,” she boomed.
“What inspired you? And why Santa Muerte?” I pressed.
“My daughter,” she replied, gesturing toward a beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties. “She had a terrible car accident back then, leaving her with burns over most of her body. That’s when I started believing.”
“People criticize us because they don’t understand,” she continued. “They think we don’t believe in God. But we do! We believe in God, the Virgin of Guadalupe, and San Judas Tadeo. And we believe in Satanism. We believe in everything. Except humanity,” she said, erupting into hearty laughter.
Her laughter wasn’t just wild—it was defiant, the laugh of someone who had nothing left to lose and couldn’t care less about others’ opinions. It embodied pure freedom—a freedom that was unapologetic and absolute.
I managed to ask her name before she left. “Shakira Guadalupe Masturbeta,” she said with a laugh, cracking up once more as she sauntered off.
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