Avocado pickers in Mexico return to work after U.S. lifts security alert, but Michoacán fears linger
SANTA ANA ZIROSTO, Mexico — Francisco Isidro didn’t wait for a formal all-clear. The morning after U.S. authorities lifted a security alert that had halted avocado exports from Michoacán, he was back in the orchard, looping a rope around a 20-foot tree and climbing toward fruit bound for the United States. Fifteen minutes later, he had filled a box.
“Thank God ... and now we’re getting paid!” he shouted, after several days without work.
The alert, which lasted eight days, prompted growers in Michoacán — Mexico’s main avocado-producing state — to suspend operations, led to the deployment of more Mexican troops to the region and left an estimated 200,000 people employed by the industry in limbo. U.S. officials did not say what specific threat set it off, but the area has long been a flashpoint: four cartels designated by the Trump administration as terrorist organizations operate in Michoacán.
By the weekend, orchards were running again. Packing plants were at full capacity. U.S. Department of Agriculture inspectors had returned to certify the fruit and ensure it was free of pests before crossing into the United States.
For workers, the return means a paycheck. Isidro, 39, has spent two decades as a harvester and is paid by the day. During the suspension, he and his wife relied on the small store she runs. In Tacámbaro, more than 90 miles away, an engineer at a packing plant got word in the early morning that the facility had to be sealed and kept under quarantine.
The shutdown caught Isidro mid-climb. There was no warning, he said, just the foreman’s shout to stop cutting.
Authorities gave no explanation of the threat behind the alert. But in a state where cartels profit from drugs and extortion, possibilities are not hard to find. For some growers, extortion has become a fixed cost. One producer recently told The Associated Press he pays 1 peso per kilo exported in extortion fees and sends about 90 metric tons a day to market — more than $5,000 in daily payments. Loaded trucks are sometimes robbed on western Michoacán roads. A farmworker said armed men near the Jalisco border have stopped and beaten workers without explanation; he spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation.
U.S. inspectors have also faced violence. In the past, they have been assaulted and temporarily detained, triggering suspensions much like this one. An official familiar with their work said threats sometimes followed discoveries of pests, when inspectors were pressured not to report them. The U.S. Embassy usually does not provide details about the incidents. Inspectors now concentrate on packing plants rather than isolated orchards, where armed groups operate with little interference.
Valentín Rodríguez, a longtime avocado grower, packer and seller, said the industry has little room to maneuver when Washington acts. “If the United States says that it is suspending technical services for security reasons, it’s impossible to export. If it’s for plant health, it’s the same,” he said. “We are at the mercy of whatever the U.S. market and government decide to do with the industry.”
Those fears are colored by history. Mexico did not export avocados to the United States for eight decades after a worm was found in an avocado pit in 1914. The U.S. ban was lifted in 1997, when domestic production could no longer keep up with demand. Today, more than 80% of Mexican avocados are sold to the United States, and in March alone Mexico shipped nearly 4,800 tons a day across the border. Demand peaks every winter as guacamole becomes a Super Bowl staple.
To keep that volume moving, certification is everything. Isidro is a “certified” picker. He knows how to disinfect cutting tools, handle fruit quickly and carefully, and report blemishes or damage. The orchards where he works are certified too, with dining and bathroom facilities. His supervisor, Jesús Méndez, checked boxes before they were loaded onto a truck with tracking details. Trucks wait until others in the area are ready, then travel in convoys to packing plants, escorted by police patrols to prevent robberies.
At the packing plants, inspections continue: quality checks, flesh samples, pest searches. Avocados move along mechanical sizing lines before workers place them in boxes. Once labeled and sealed, trailers head for the border. At the slightest security alert, every point along the route can be brought to a standstill.
The arrival of more than 1,500 soldiers to protect Michoacán’s avocado-growing region and recent arrests of people allegedly involved in extortion have eased some concerns, but not all. Luis Manuel Soto, a 36-year-old grower and packer from western Michoacán, said he hopes the increased security brings change. So far, he says, he has not felt it.
Soto recounted that in 2024, armed men pulled him from his vehicle and threatened to kill him unless he paid them and withdrew a complaint over extortion and an attempt to seize his orchards. The threats returned last July even after a conviction in the earlier case. “They left me a funeral cross and ... a written message saying I had only days left,” he said. Phone threats have continued. He now makes occasional visits to his orchards, manages his businesses and social projects remotely, and spends time in prosecutors’ offices seeking protection.
In Santa Ana Zirosto and nearby communities, residents welcome the military presence. “It gives us some peace, but it also scares us a little because it could lead to confrontations with some of the groups,” Méndez said.
The restart keeps money flowing through an industry that U.S. consumers depend on for a beloved ingredient. But no one expects the underlying threat to vanish. Growers know the next warning can come without notice. For now, the trees are being picked again, and the trucks are rolling north.