In that moment I imagined the worst
En uno de los parques más emblemáticos de la Ciudad de México, tres mujeres jóvenes fueron víctimas de un robo coordinado que revela cómo la criminalidad organizada ha aprendido a camuflarse entre la vida cotidiana de los espacios públicos. Un hombre que fingía ser vendedor de dulces invocó el nombre de una banda criminal para paralizar a sus víctimas mediante el miedo, mientras cómplices ejecutaban el despojo con precisión. Lo que comenzó como un testimonio en redes sociales se convirtió en un espejo colectivo: decenas de voces reconocieron el mismo patrón, y la ciudad se vio obligada a preguntarse si sus parques siguen siendo refugios o se han vuelto escenarios de vulnerabilidad.
- Un hombre que se hacía pasar por vendedor ambulante utilizó el nombre de La Unión Tepito para inmovilizar a tres jóvenes mediante amenazas de secuestro, obligándolas a desbloquear sus teléfonos y permanecer inmóviles mientras cómplices consumaban el robo.
- La operación fue meticulosa: los ladrones coordinaron roles, controlaron el espacio y hasta anticiparon un tercer momento de extorsión antes de retirarse, revelando un esquema ensayado y no un crimen oportunista.
- Cuando las víctimas publicaron su testimonio en TikTok, la respuesta masiva de otros usuarios que describían experiencias idénticas en el mismo lugar transformó un caso individual en evidencia de un patrón sistemático.
- La Secretaría de Seguridad Ciudadana confirmó el incidente del 28 de mayo pero ofreció una versión de los hechos que contradice el relato de las víctimas, abriendo además una investigación interna sobre la conducta de los policías presentes.
- La discrepancia entre la versión oficial y la de las afectadas, sumada a la posible presencia policial durante el robo, ha intensificado el debate público sobre si los grandes parques de la ciudad cuentan con protección real o solo con una apariencia de seguridad.
Un jueves de finales de mayo, tres jóvenes disfrutaban la tarde junto al Lago Mayor del Bosque de Chapultepec cuando un hombre se acercó con la apariencia de un vendedor de dulces. Al rechazar su mercancía, el hombre no se retiró: exigió sus teléfonos, invocó el nombre de La Unión Tepito y les ordenó desbloquear sus dispositivos, supuestamente para buscar un video filtrado. Las amenazó con subirlas a un vehículo si no obedecían. Les pidió que formaran una fila, agacharan la cabeza y permanecieran en silencio.
Lo que siguió fue una operación coordinada. Un segundo hombre llegó, y entre los dos tomaron los tres teléfonos y los guardaron en una mochila. Antes de irse, advirtieron a las jóvenes que una mujer con una chamarra se acercaría a cobrarles 200 pesos a cada una. Una de las víctimas, Hannya Alizardi, reaccionó: instó a sus amigas a correr hacia un café cercano en busca de ayuda.
Al compartir su experiencia en TikTok, Alizardi y otra de las afectadas, Yunuen Villabos, desencadenaron algo inesperado. Decenas de usuarios comenzaron a relatar robos casi idénticos en el mismo rincón del parque, convirtiendo un trauma personal en la evidencia de un esquema organizado que opera en uno de los destinos más concurridos de la ciudad.
La Secretaría de Seguridad Ciudadana confirmó el incidente, pero su versión difirió de la de las víctimas: según la dependencia, las jóvenes se acercaron a un puesto de dulces para pedir ayuda tras el robo. La autoridad también reveló que había abierto una investigación interna para determinar el papel de los policías presentes. Esa admisión encendió aún más el debate: si agentes de seguridad estuvieron cerca durante o después del robo, ¿por qué las jóvenes quedaron desprotegidas? La pregunta sigue sin respuesta, y con ella, la duda sobre si Chapultepec —símbolo de la vida pública capitalina— puede seguir siendo un lugar donde simplemente sentarse junto al agua.
On a Thursday afternoon in late May, three young women sat by the water at Lago Mayor in Chapultepec Park, one of Mexico City's most visited public spaces. Around two o'clock, a man approached them with the casual manner of a street vendor selling candy. When they declined to buy, he did not leave. Instead, he demanded they hand over their phones.
The man claimed to represent La Unión Tepito, a criminal organization, and said he was searching for whoever had leaked a certain video. He ordered the women to unlock their devices so he could search their photo galleries. As he spoke, he told them to line up and keep their heads down. One of the victims, Hannya Alizardi, remembers thinking in that moment that the worst was about to happen. The man threatened to force them into a vehicle if they did not comply.
What unfolded was a coordinated operation. The man instructed the women to stay still and quiet, suggesting there were others watching them. A second man arrived. Together, the two took all three phones and placed them in a backpack. Then they told the women that another person—a woman carrying a jacket—would soon approach and demand 200 pesos from each of them. Before leaving, the man warned them not to move or cry out. Alizardi urged her friends to run toward a nearby café and get help. They bolted.
The incident might have remained a private trauma, but Alizardi and another victim, Yunuen Villabos, posted a video account on TikTok describing the robbery and the method used against them. The video spread across social media, and something unexpected happened: other users began commenting that they or people they knew had experienced nearly identical robberies in the same area of the park. The pattern suggested this was not a random crime but an organized scheme targeting visitors to one of the city's most popular destinations.
The robbery occurred on May 28. When the Mexico City Security Secretariat responded publicly, they confirmed the incident but framed it differently. In a statement posted on social media, they said the three women had approached a semi-permanent candy stand and asked for help from the vendor because a man had snatched their phones. The secretariat added that auxiliary police had invited the victims to file a formal complaint and had conducted a search to try to identify the perpetrator. They also noted that an internal affairs investigation had been opened to identify which police officers were involved and to take their statements.
The response raised as many questions as it answered. The secretariat's account of events—that the women approached a candy vendor for help—differed from the victims' account of being approached by someone posing as a vendor. More troubling was the mention of a police investigation into officer conduct, suggesting that law enforcement may have been present or involved in some way during or after the incident. The revelation sparked a broader conversation on social media about whether Mexico City's public spaces, even its most iconic parks, were adequately protected. Visitors began asking whether they could safely spend an afternoon by the water without becoming targets for organized robbery schemes.
Notable Quotes
In that moment I imagined the worst— Hannya Alizardi, victim
Here there's a little store, let's go, let's run— Hannya Alizardi, urging her friends to safety
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why would someone claim to represent a gang just to steal phones? That seems like an unnecessary risk.
It's intimidation theater. The gang name is a tool—it makes the threat credible, makes people believe there are consequences for not cooperating. It's faster than physical violence and often more effective.
And the part about searching for a leaked video—was that real, or just a cover story?
We don't know. It could be real, or it could be a pretext that sounds plausible enough to justify the search. Either way, it gets the victims to unlock their phones voluntarily.
What struck me most was that other people reported the same thing happening in the same spot. How does that pattern develop?
Once a location is identified as vulnerable—good foot traffic, tourists with phones, limited police presence—word spreads in criminal networks. It becomes a known hunting ground. The fact that multiple people reported it suggests this wasn't their first time.
The police response mentioned an investigation into officer conduct. Does that mean police were there?
That's the unsettling part. Either police were present and didn't intervene, or they arrived after and something about their conduct raised questions. The secretariat didn't clarify, which itself is telling.
What happens to the victims now?
They have to file a formal complaint, cooperate with an investigation, and live with the knowledge that a public space they thought was safe became a place where they were threatened and robbed in broad daylight.