Lolita Bosch: "I haven't been back to Mexico for ten years because my life would be in danger."

BarcelonaAlthough he has had a literary and personal relationship with Mexico for more than three decades, Lolita Bosch (Barcelona, ​​1970) will not be able to travel to the Guadalajara International Book FairHis involvement in denouncing drug trafficking and its financial and political implications through numerous books, interviews, and public appearances led to him receiving threats starting in 2012, and his visits to the country became increasingly complicated, to the point that he can no longer return because it would endanger his life. He speaks to the shocking A normal life (La Campana, 2025).

Before arriving in Mexico for the first time in 1993, you had already been in contact with its literature, right? I understand that reading Pedro Páramo It was very important to you.

— Yes. My father gave me Pedro PáramoI read Juan Rulfo's novel when I was 16. It impressed me greatly, and I thought: is that what literature is capable of? It was a huge shock. Shortly after, a friend of mine went to Mexico and returned with a book that Mexicana de Aviación had published to celebrate its 50th anniversary, called 21 Mexican storieswhere authors like Juan Vicente Melo and Carlos Monsiváis were featured. I was so impressed that I went to see Zulema Moret, an Argentinian workshop leader living in Barcelona, ​​to tell her I wanted to write but couldn't afford to pay her. She told me to submit a short story and that if she liked it, I could take the course for free.

What did you write?

— A story that took place in the Mexican desert and starred a woman who waited so long for someone that she ended up turning into a cactus.

Did you get the scholarship?

— Yes! I would have loved to continue at a writing school, but at that time, incredibly enough, there weren't any in Barcelona. Everyone advised me to study philology, but I wasn't sure about it, because I didn't want rules, but rather tools to be freer in my writing, and I ended up studying philosophy. Years later, I felt a strong connection to some advice Constantino Bértolo gave: "If someone says the word to you during a phone conversation, grammar"You hang up automatically."

How did you end up in Mexico?

— After graduating, I continued looking for a practical writing school and found two. One was in Argentina and the other in Mexico, and I chose the latter. I arrived at the end of 1993, at 23 years old, and after spending my first night in a hotel, I went outside and had the literal feeling that I belonged there. Since then, I've said that, culturally, I'm Mexican.

Because?

— I discovered many things in Mexico. A passion for literature and a respect for the culture, but I also discovered love. I had a mother-in-law who taught me how to do everything around the house, from making meatballs to washing windows. Even now, I leave a lemon with hot water in the sink so the dishes smell nice.

Mexico soon became a setting in your literature, didn't it?

— Before publishing anything, I returned to Barcelona for family reasons. I packed my entire life into two giant crates that crossed the ocean by ship from the port of Veracruz. There were glasses, cutlery, clothes, furniture... and about 3,000 books. While I was working on a PhD in theater, I entered an experimental literature prize in Olot and won. That's where it all began. What you see is a face [CCG, 2004], and shortly Three European stories [Trojan Horse, 2004], Elisa Kiseljak [La Campana, 2005] and Who we were [Empúries, 2006]. In the latter, Mexico appears for the first time.

Since then it has been a constant in your work.

— There are many books in Spanish – many of which have not been published here – and there are another five books in Catalan, the last of which is A normal life, my 100th book, where I explain everything that has happened so that I can't return to the most wonderful and at the same time the most terrible place in the world.

When did the problems start?

— I haven't been able to return to Mexico for ten years because my life would be in danger. What's happened to me is horrific. I've been terrified. Extremely explicit threats, persecution... I've witnessed so much pain and injustice. In 2006, the then-president of Mexico, Felipe Calderón, went on television and declared war on the drug cartels. I, who had become increasingly aware that writers have a public function and must be consistent with the privileges we enjoy, sent an email when this war began to 300 people with access to the media, with the title Our apparent surrenderThe body asked: "How many are we and what can we do?"

Our apparent surrender It became a platform for peace, right?

— It ended up being the largest anti-war platform in Mexico. I ended up volunteering to lead a team of 92 people. When it came out Poppy fields before this (Random House, 2011) – which in Catalan was called Fields before all this (Empúries, 2011)—, the book had such an impact that I became what they called there "woman mirror of war"

In A normal life You explain that the space you created among activists, journalists, and victims "distanced you from everything else." Why did you become so involved?

— Like everyone I worked with during the war, there was one death that affected me particularly deeply. It was Manuel, who sold tomatoes at the Central de Abastos, which is what would be our Mercabarna. He was killed in a brutally violent way, and because I witnessed it so closely, I decided to put my body on the line for the war.

In another passage of the book, you recall that some time ago, a Catalan shaman told you that "your body is full of dead young people." And she added: "Your belly is full of frightened teenagers crying out for help."

— Because of so much suffering, I ended up developing morbid obesity and had to have surgery. I also suffered from an autoimmune disease. This thing about the young dead I carried inside is literal, because I've seen many of my children and many of my friends disappear. I've seen many people die. I've seen a lot of cruelty, a lot of savagery... and at the same time, I'd say I've hardly seen any evil. One of the only exceptions was a drug lord who lived a long time ago and was a psychopath.

You haven't been back to Mexico since 2015. The first threat came to you at the end of 2012, right?

— They ended up giving me a nickname because, in addition to writing novels, I was a journalist and an activist in a conflict zone. When you get a nickname, it means the government knows who you are, the governors are aware of you—they're the most dangerous of all—and the drug cartels have you on their radar too. Everything has happened to me: from a governor's threat to that cartel that contacted me to send me encrypted information about how money was being laundered in Barcelona. I immediately informed the Mossos d'Esquadra (Catalan police), and they managed to stop things. From the end of 2012 until 2015, I kept going back to Mexico, but it got harder and harder. I paid for a hotel room, but I stayed at a friend's house so they couldn't find me... My last trip out of Mexico was a nightmare. At the airport, the police subjected me to a completely disproportionate explosives check. They were there so long that I told them I was going to miss my flight, and they replied: "You'll only leave Mexico if we want you to. You could stay here forever."

Why did you stop going?

— I stopped going after my aunt was kidnapped. The kidnapping lasted seventeen hours, and we managed to rescue her alive. When my family witnessed, from the Maresme, theoperating room"The people who normally did the work we did with journalists and activists in Mexico City told me, 'We don't want to experience this.' At that moment, I clicked and came to the conclusion that it was better for everyone if I stayed here."