Jiroemon Kimura was the oldest man in the world until his death in 2013. When he died, he had lived for 116 years and 54 days. His secret to longevity, the Japanese supercentenarian said, was to always eat light meals.

Kimura had eight children and a wife. He also had two official birth dates and was listed as having finished elementary school in three different years: 1907, 1909 and 1911. The story gets even stranger: some records indicate that, during his lifetime, Jiroemon Kimura admitted to lying about his age.

This is one of the many seemingly bizarre cases that Australian researcher Saul Justin Newman, 41, compiles in his book, titled Morbid: Debunking Modern Longevity Science (2026). He analyzes many of the myths surrounding studies of human longevity and the so-called “blue zones,” where people are said to live much longer than anywhere else on the planet.

Over the last decade, Newton’s research — which, back in 2024, earned him an Ig Nobel Prize in Demography — has led him to argue that the extraordinary cases of people living past 100 have less to do with genetics or diet than with statistical errors and the lack of reliable birth certificates.

In an interview with EL PAÍS via video call, the Australian researcher argues that the limit on human lifespan is simply something that fascinates people. “It’s much more important to increase average lifespan and quality of life, which is what medicine does,” he says.

Question. Are blue zones just a myth?

Answer. Just look at how some of them were discovered. A National Geographic editor told a reporter: “I need you to find me a Blue Zone in the United States.” And he goes and finds one on the road between his home and Las Vegas: a religious community in Loma Linda. This isn’t just a simple anecdote; the level of scientific evidence regarding blue zones is very low, and the conflicts of interest among the people who investigate them are very high. So, we really have no idea if blue zones actually exist. And that’s not surprising when you consider that, even today, a quarter of the world’s children don’t have a birth certificate. How are you going to determine where people live past 100 if birth records aren’t reliable?

Q. What’s the biggest scientific problem with the way that these blue zones have been presented to the public?

A. There’s a fundamental mathematical problem. Generally, in any statistical process, even the most precise one, there are measurement errors. There’s noise in the data. But in studies of human populations, this takes on enormous importance. Let’s say we want to analyze the longevity of 100,000 50-year-olds, but a group of 100 40-year-olds decides to falsify their documents in order to appear 50. It’s clear that the survival probability of this group will be higher, because they’re all 10 years younger. As time passes, the percentage of the population represented by the liars will increase. By the time they reach 100, this group of people — who are actually 90 — will likely represent almost the entire remaining living population. These are rare and random errors, but they cannot be ignored.

Q. Maybe these errors weren’t so rare a century ago.

A. Of course, they were much more common in birth certificates from 100 years ago. Currently, in America, something like 5% to 10% of the population has an inaccurate age. And since paperwork is the only way we have to verify a person’s age, we’re facing a problem that can’t be solved.

Q. How, then, did we end up identifying these places as blue zones?

A. The way to verify the age of a centenarian is to review their documents and trust that both the person reviewing them and the centenarian are telling the truth. However, in science, you should never accept something simply on faith. It’s a foundational principle: things must be proven. This sets up a situation in which it’s extremely easy for the process of declaring blue zones to become corrupted. In the book, I detail several cases of conflicts of interest, of people who validate data from centenarians and, at the same time, profit from it.

Q. Do you have to pay to be certified as a blue zone?

A. Some blue zones were identified by scientists. Some were declared by businessmen. But now, there’s an organization — Blue Zones — that sells certifications. A New York Times investigation revealed that prices range from $3 million to $40 million for the blue zone designation, but it’s difficult to verify the exact figures. It’s incredible, because the person handing out these certificates is the same one who — without any scientific training — found a blue zone while driving to Las Vegas.

Q. What made you suspect that there were inconsistencies with the data and the scientific process behind the blue zones?

A. Initially, what interested me most was the problem of the data quality, of the existence of these false centenarians. As I went through this process, I discovered worse and worse levels of data quality. The closer you look at it, the worse it is: you end up with entire populations of 100-year-olds effectively disappearing. The other day, Japan announced that it had just surpassed 100,000 people over the age of 100 for the first time. But back in 2010, a similar announcement was made, and shortly afterward, Japan acknowledged that thousands of those centenarians were only alive on paper. In reality, they’d been dead for a long time.

Q. Your book includes other similar cases.

A. In Greece, for example, where I did some investigative work in 2018, I found out that thousands of people listed as centenarians had died, but their families were still regularly collecting their pension checks. This isn’t anecdotal: the level of misinformation is just creeping everywhere. A few weeks ago, data from Sardinia’s blue zone was presented to the European Parliament in a debate on alcohol consumption and health. The objective was to defend the benefits of drinking wine. The person on the panel was Dr. Gianni Pes, the gentleman who’s been paid by Blue Zones for roughly 20 years now.

Q. I’m going to have to review my family data, because my grandmother had an aunt who lived to be 107 years old. But maybe the birth certificate is just incorrect…

A. There are many reasons why these errors occur. Failures in record-keeping, illiteracy, fraud attempts… In Italy, for example, there are many cases of people who falsified their documents to dodge the draft, especially before and during World War II.

Q. In the book, you write that those who hold longevity records are often people who drink and smoke excessively, hailing from the poorest neighborhoods of their cities. Why have we believed these records?

A. Because they’re charming people: how can we say “no” to an old person telling us their stories? We also like to believe in a mythical, distant place, where everything is wonderful and people live a long time, even if they smoke or drink excessively. Death is scary. But there’s this alternative narrative that someone puts in front of you, and it’s all too easy to believe

Q. We’ve long assumed that certain behaviors, such as having strong social ties or engaging in physical activity, help us live longer. Are these behaviors really supported by robust science?

A. Some are. It’s clear that exercise is better for your health. But others, like drinking alcohol every day, are crazy things to recommend. The fact is that the inhabitants of the blue zones, in many cases, don’t actually follow these behaviors. Okinawa, Japan, is the clearest example. They had the lowest rate of eating salad in the country, but were second-highest in alcohol consumption and the highest in KFC consumption. For many years, the population over the age of 75 had the worst body mass index (BMI) in the country. And yet, this remote island supposedly is home to the largest number of centenarians in Japan.

Q. Why is longevity so appealing to us? And, above all, why is it so marketable?

A. Because it sells itself. Nobody wants to die. Also, if the treatment or prescription you’re selling to live longer doesn’t work, nobody is going to leave a bad review. Nobody can go online and say, “It didn’t work, I died.” There are records of longevity-related frauds dating back more than 2,000 years.

Q. Earlier this year, Elon Musk said that aging is a problem we can solve. Do you think longevity research is experiencing a new boom thanks to tech moguls?

A. More money is being invested than ever before, and the results are worse than ever. If you’re Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, and you’ve bought everything, the only thing left to sell is a way to escape death. Some of the vendors have made an incredible amount of money without producing a single reliable result. I think it’s very interesting to see who’s investing in this business. Billionaires are, but you won’t find a single pharmaceutical company involved, even though having a drug capable of delaying death could become the best-selling medicine on the planet. Pfizer, Merck and other firms aren’t investing a thing.

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Although they all usually wrote in lowercase, that afternoon “El Licenciado” sent a message in capital letters to the group chat, leaving no doubt about the importance of the target: Carlos Manzo had to die right there and then.

It was 7:50 p.m. on November 1, 2025. Six or seven minutes remained before one of the young men would fire his 9mm pistol at the victim. The mayor of Uruapan, one of Mexico’s richest agricultural regions, was walking through the town square, which was packed with people. It was Day of the Dead. Journalists were livestreaming the opening of the Candle Festival on social media. Manzo was carrying his son in his arms. That was when El Licenciado wrote: “I REPEAT, IT DOESN’T MATTER IF HE HAS THE KID WITH HIM, DO IT ANYWAY.”

And they did. The killer, a 17-year-old methamphetamine addict, shot Manzo in the square minutes later. By then, the child was no longer in his father’s arms. The mayor died shortly afterward on the way to the hospital. It did not take long for the entire country to learn of the attack. Videos of the shooting magnified the horror, reaching cellphones in every corner of Mexico.

The assassination of Carlos Manzo marked the beginning of a new chapter in Mexico. Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum had made the fight against crime one of the pillars of her administration. The criminal wars in Sinaloa had emerged as its first major challenge and showed no sign of easing. Then came the attack on Manzo, a controversial but popular figure who frequently appeared on social media patrolling alongside police officers, arresting criminals, and parading them before the public.

The attack became the government’s foremost challenge. The mayor was cast as the victim of an entire country, of the violence and power wielded by organized crime. A thorough investigation, mapping the conspiracy and arresting everyone involved, regardless of who might be implicated, seemed the only way out of the crisis.

A year later, the progress is unmistakable, something unusual in a country plagued by staggering levels of impunity. Based on previously unpublished information, EL PAÍS has reconstructed the authorities’ investigation, carried out in part by officials in Michoacán and in part by the federal Security Ministry.

To date, 34 suspects have been arrested and at least five others remain in investigators’ sights, one of them of particular importance, according to information obtained by this newspaper. The alleged mastermind, Ramón Álvarez Ayala, known as “R1,” was arrested in July; his right-hand man in the operation, El Licenciado, had been captured months earlier.

The investigation began with footage from 14 videos recorded at the scene, some obtained from social media and others from security cameras in the town square. The videos showed the three members of the team tasked with carrying out the attack: 17-year-old Víctor Ubaldo, 16-year-old Fernando Josué, and a man named Ramiro.

All three are dead. Víctor Ubaldo, the gunman, was killed by gunfire from one of Manzo’s bodyguards shortly after the attack. Although rumors initially circulated that the bodyguards, all of whom are in prison except for their fugitive chief, had killed Víctor Ubaldo as part of the conspiracy, investigators have found no evidence to support that theory. The other two were found murdered nine days later, on November 10, on a highway outside Uruapan. Investigators quickly identified them because they were wearing clothes from a store they had visited hours before carrying out the shooting.

Over the course of the investigation, two pieces of evidence proved crucial for authorities: a cellphone and a hard drive.

The cellphone belonged to Ramiro, known as “El Jaguar.” When authorities examined it, they discovered a group chat on the Threema messaging app called “Ciudad” (City). The group had nine members.

“El Licenciado created it a day or two before the attack. They used it for surveillance and to prepare the attack,” said a source familiar with the investigation.

The other participants, including Ramiro himself, were members of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) structure operating in Uruapan and surrounding areas, which was led by El Licenciado. According to an organizational chart included in the investigation and reviewed by this newspaper, the group’s main local structure comprised more than 140 members at the time of the attack.

The avatar

In the Ciudad group chat, the most active participant was someone who used a particularly distinctive avatar: a man dressed in a black suit and tie over a white shirt, wearing a cap, balaclava, tactical vest, magazine pouches, a ring, silver necklaces and bracelets, seated on what looked like a throne.

His messages appeared under the name “Lic,” short for Licenciado. Perhaps aware of what might happen after the attack, Ramiro had left a letter at home addressed to his wife. In it, he explained who Lic was, what his alleged role in the attack had been, his real name, Jorge Armando Gómez, his cellphone number and the ID he used on Threema. He told his wife that it was not true that he had been working in avocado orchards. He apologized for the lie and added that, if anything happened to him, it would be because of his role in the Carlos Manzo case.

By mid-November, the investigation was beginning to take shape. An anonymous tip reportedly received by prosecutors in Michoacán helped narrow the search for El Licenciado, already a focus because of Ramiro’s letter and cellphone. The caller said that El Licenciado was also known as “El Conta” and drove a white Suzuki Jimny. The tipster even provided the vehicle’s license plate number. A lightbulb went on for investigators.

“We had identified a Conta linked to the CJNG around Lake Cuitzeo,” one of the investigators explained. “We tracked him for extortion of municipalities and companies in that area and for some homicides over the previous six months.”

Investigators also knew Conta’s avatar: a man in a black suit seated on a throne. When they compared the two profiles, they realized they were looking at the same person.

Using the cellphone number provided by Ramiro and information about his vehicle, investigators quickly tracked him down. By November 17, they had him under surveillance at his home in downtown Morelia. The following day, while monitoring the residence, they saw him leave and moved in to arrest him.

Hours later, during a search of the house, investigators discovered a two-terabyte Toshiba hard drive. Inside was “all the information on his organization’s structure, in the hills and the city of Uruapan — the groups in the hills focused on fighting rivals and those in Uruapan centered on kidnappings, extortion, homicides and running small casinos,” the source continued. “There was a lot of information on the group, payrolls, the products they handled: marijuana (which they called ‘cafe’), methamphetamine (‘frio’), cocaine (‘suave’), heroin/crack (‘duro’), vapes, cigarettes, slot machines… everything.”

The hard drive also contained a document prepared by the Michoacán Attorney General’s Office in 2021 detailing the CJNG’s overall structure, then headed by Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, alias “El Mencho,” who was killed in a military operation in February of this year.

How that document ended up in the hands of a cartel leader was a question investigators could not answer. But its presence on the hard drive pointed to collaboration between security forces and the CJNG, a connection that would resurface months later as investigators surveilled another branch of the organization, also linked to the Manzo case.

By the third week of November, the problem was no longer a lack of information but how to manage its sheer volume. The messages exchanged in the Ciudad chat group themselves outlined the main structure of the conspiracy.

With El Licenciado under arrest, investigators knew that at least one higher-ranking member of the CJNG had been aware of the plot and had pushed it forward. On November 1, the day of the attack, at 6:56 p.m., El Licenciado wrote that Manzo and his entourage were running late because “they’re out distributing candles,” part of the town’s Day of the Dead traditions.

The leader of the conspiracy added: “They’ll tell us when he comes out. Anyway, we should already be ready to tear him up like the boss wants.” No one in the group seemed to have any doubt about whom El Licenciado meant by “the boss.”

Investigators soon identified that boss as Ramón Álvarez Ayala, known as “R1,” one of the CJNG’s most powerful figures, a close associate of El Mencho and a dominant force in his home state of Michoacán. Authorities had arrested him in Guadalajara in 2012, and even then he was described as “the second most important figure in the criminal organization’s structure.”

Both R1 and his brother, Rafael Álvarez Ayala, known as “R2,” received orders directly from El Mencho and oversaw the cartel’s operations in the Tierra Caliente region south of Uruapan. Their influence became evident in late 2022, when R1 was released by a judge despite facing charges of organized crime and kidnapping.

In the Manzo investigation, testimony from protected witnesses indicated that El Licenciado reported directly to R1.

The municipal council’s group chat

There were still many unanswered questions. The vertical outline of the criminal hierarchy left much of the plot unexplained. Three deaths marked the starting point: the gunman, his friend and backup shooter, both minors, and the recruiter and coordinator, Ramiro. There was a boss, El Licenciado, and by mid-November investigators already knew of his connection to R1. But much remained unclear.

Besides Ramiro and El Licenciado, who were the other seven members of the Ciudad group? The two minors were not in the chat. How had they become involved in the plot? How had Ramiro met them? Who had killed Ramiro and Fernando Josué, the backup shooter? And beyond that, what helping hand or hands had the criminal conspiracy found within Mayor Manzo’s inner circle?

Messages exchanged in the Ciudad group by El Licenciado and another participant using the alias “Brilloso” quickly led investigators to suspect that people close to Manzo were leaking information to the criminal organization.

At 6:50 p.m. on November 1, for example, El Licenciado wrote: “Right now they’re at the Casa de Cultura. That’s what I’m being told. The target is inside.”

A minute later, he added: “He’s going to the candle-lighting ceremony at 7. That’s what I’m being told.”

Three minutes after that, he continued: “At 7 he’ll leave the Casa de Cultura for the Pergola, and from there he’ll go on the procession and then to see the [Day of the Dead] altars. They say they’re running late.”

Then, at 7:07 p.m., El Licenciado sent a photograph showing someone holding a cellphone. On its screen were messages from the Uruapan municipal council’s group chat.

This was extremely serious, and it also provided a crucial lead. It was not merely that CJNG lookouts had been tracking Manzo throughout the main night of the Day of the Dead celebrations. Someone with access to the chat in which the mayor communicated with council members and other municipal officials was forwarding screenshots of those conversations to the criminal group.

In the photograph in question, a message from Manzo himself could be seen in the council chat. El Licenciado transcribed it for the group: “The mayor is telling his people that for the candle-lighting ceremony we should gather in the square by La Inmaculada, please.”

Several participants in the chat replied with messages such as “copied” and “understood.” At that point, all that remained was to wait for the two shooters, coordinated by Ramiro, to move in on their target.

By mapping Ramiro’s communications using the two cellphones seized from his wife, investigators began to reconstruct his network of criminal contacts. In his contacts list, they found a number saved under the alias “Viejito.” Over time, they discovered that Viejito was a Uruapan taxi driver who sold drugs for the CJNG and coordinated with a man known as “La Pava.”

Investigators also learned that one of Viejito’s customers was a man named Samuel. Once again, a lightbulb went on. Almost from the beginning, investigators had suspected Samuel García, the city government’s director of public relations.

“We knew he had had conflicts with the mayor,” said a source close to the inquiries. “Also, because he used [cocaine], he exhibited somewhat suspicious behavior and on the day of the event [November 1], he didn’t go to the square.”

Investigators believe that the screenshot showing Manzo’s message was sent by Samuel García to Viejito. Viejito then allegedly forwarded it to La Pava, whose name had appeared in the Ciudad Threema group. La Pava would in turn have passed it on to his boss — whose arrest remains pending and is perhaps the investigators’ top priority — and that person then forwarded it to El Licenciado.

In January of this year, authorities announced the arrests of Viejito and Samuel García. La Pava would be captured later. Viejito admitted that La Pava had shared plans to attack Manzo with him and that he was the one who put him in touch with Samuel. Recruiting the city government’s public relations director was not difficult. He agreed to help them in exchange for “two bags of cocaine.”

La Basilia, El Caos

By January, several other arrests had already been made. Using the location data from a third cellphone carried by Ramiro, investigators quickly learned that the 34-year-old, who was also linked to the weapon used to kill Manzo and had allegedly used it himself in two murders in mid-October, had gone on November 9 to an area known as La Basilia, on the outskirts of Uruapan.

“We knew that place because it was where Ramiro had taken the young men for shooting practice,” explained the source, referring to the two minors, Víctor Ubaldo and Fernando Josué. “Ramiro took them there with a trainer of Colombian origin.”

On the day of the attack, Fernando Josué fled to La Basilia. Eight days later, Ramiro joined him there. The next day, both were found dead on a road not far from that site.

“Maybe they killed them because [Ramiro’s CJNG faction] knew we were on their trail. We had carried out investigative operations in La Basilia and Quirindavara,” the source added, referring to the Uruapan neighborhood where Ramiro hid right after the attack on November 1.

Data from Ramiro’s phones and witness statements quickly pointed investigators toward a local underworld figure, Alejandro Baruc Castellanos, known as “Comandante Caos.”

Investigators later determined that El Caos was El Licenciado’s trusted lieutenant in La Basilia and Tiamba, another settlement north of Uruapan. He was one of seven commanders reporting to El Licenciado in the region. Of those seven, only one remains free, or alive.

According to the organizational chart investigators compiled on El Licenciado’s network, El Caos had at least 16 people under his command.

Authorities arrested El Caos in November 2025 and charged him with the murders of Fernando Josué and Ramiro. In February, they detained three people linked to his group. One of them was Salvador Belmontes Aguilar, alias “Comandante 26,″ another of El Licenciado’s seven commanders.

“We also detained 26’s sister, who turned out to be Caos’s partner,” the sources added. After their arrests, both El Caos and Comandante 26 pointed to what they claimed was the motive behind the attack: the arrest, months earlier, of Comandante 26’s brother.

In August 2025, Manzo and his police force arrested another of El Licenciado’s seven commanders, René Belmontes, known as “Comandante Rhino.” According to investigators, it was not so much the arrest itself as the way Manzo handled it that mattered.

In a video recorded that day, Rhino appeared in the bed of a police pickup truck, handcuffed and with his face covered by his T-shirt. Beside him sat one of his associates, also handcuffed and similarly hooded. Standing below the vehicle, Manzo filmed them while saying: “So you’re doing shit around here, bastards? […] I don’t care what group you’re from, I just don’t want you pulling that crap around here, so it’s clear, okay? Did you hear me?” Both answered yes.

Brilloso and Vikingo

By mid‑2026, the case was moving at full speed. In addition to dismantling El Caos’s group and uncovering the message chain involving Samuel García and El Licenciado, authorities had arrested the taxi driver who transported Fernando Josué to La Basilia on the day of the attack, the middleman who arranged the ride, and Jaciel N, the link between Ramiro and the two teenage shooters.

While in rehabilitation centers in Uruapan, Jaciel had recruited Víctor Ubaldo and Fernando Josué and then put them in contact with Ramiro. Another of El Licenciado’s commanders had also been captured: Gerardo Rodríguez, alias “Kongo.” His arrest in March opened a new window into a part of the conspiracy that investigators had effectively put on the back burner since El Licenciado’s capture.

The hard drive seized from El Licenciado had contained evidence suggesting that the organization was receiving information from local authorities, but investigators had so far been unable to determine the full extent of those ties.

With Kongo’s arrest, investigators were finally able to do just that. Kongo had been on law enforcement’s radar since the earliest days of the investigation. His alias, “Kingkong,” appeared among the members of the Ciudad Threema group that El Licenciado had created to coordinate the assassination of Manzo, although he left the chat shortly after the attack.

When officers examined the cellphone seized during his arrest, they discovered another Threema group in which Kongo communicated with a lawyer named Wendy. Wendy was supplying Kongo with information about the Manzo investigation, information that could only have come from internal databases used by Michoacán authorities. Once investigators identified her, Wendy was arrested in mid-May. Shortly afterward, authorities detained the sources of her information: two men, one an active officer with Michoacán’s Forest Guard and the other a former investigator with the state Attorney General’s Office.

Authorities then turned their attention to the remaining members of the Ciudad group. Threema users log in with an alias and an associated account number. Investigators did not have access to the members’ phone numbers, making them difficult to trace. They had already identified Ramiro, who appeared under two different aliases, as well as El Licenciado and Kongo. Of the remaining participants, the one who interested them most was a user operating under the alias “Brilloso.”

On the night of the attack, shortly after the shooting, at 8:03 p.m., Brilloso wrote in the chat: “They say he’s in critical condition headed to the hospital.” That message led investigators to suspect that Brilloso, too, had access to information coming from people close to Manzo. Then, at 9:02 p.m., as reports of the mayor’s death began to emerge, El Licenciado and Brilloso congratulated the group.

“You guys really came through. My respect,” wrote El Licenciado.

“You really pulled it off,” Brilloso replied.

That exchange reinforced investigators’ belief that Brilloso occupied an important position within the conspiracy.

For months, they made little progress. Then, in late July 2026, they got a break.

“It turns out that on July 26 there was a report of armed people in a Uruapan bar,” said a source close to the investigation. “Apparently Brilloso and [his brother] Vikingo fought with others and boasted that they were plaza [local] bosses and the like. The state police arrived, interviewed the owner, and he said these two had gotten cocky and mentioned they were Brilloso and Vikingo.”

When investigators learned of the report, they connected the dots. They reviewed security footage, looked into the men’s identities, and discovered that Brilloso was actually Alexis Medina, a cousin of one of Manzo’s detained bodyguards, known as “Macas,” and a nephew of the municipality’s welfare secretary, Rosa Alejandra Vargas.

In those days, the investigation moved quickly. At the end of the month, R1 was arrested in Jalisco, and on August 7 authorities captured Alexis and his brother Cristian, known as “El Vikingo.”

“Brilloso and Vikingo reported directly to R1,” said the sources. “Apparently R1 had met Vikingo through boxing, because Vikingo made a name for himself in Jalisco as a fighter. At some point, R1 approached Vikingo and Vikingo introduced him to Brilloso,” they added. “What’s clear is that Brilloso participated in the Ciudad group; perhaps he obtained information from his cousin Macas and his aunt, because communication between Brilloso and both of them has been confirmed.”

On October 29, authorities arrested Brilloso’s aunt, Welfare Secretary Rosa Alejandra Vargas, on charges of obstruction of justice, after she spent a year refusing to appear for questioning by prosecutors.

The alleged involvement of Brilloso, his family and their links to the Manzo case sent shockwaves through Uruapan and deeply affected Manzo’s widow, Grecia Quiroz, who succeeded him as mayor.

“It turns out that Manzo is close friends with Brilloso and Vikingo’s mom, because he’s the godfather of her daughter — that is, the sister of those two,” the same sources said. “We have conversations showing that Brilloso wanted to rise within the criminal organization, and we concluded that this was his way of doing it. We are trying to determine whether Brilloso was being fed information. After all, his cousin was a bodyguard and his aunt a secretary.”

A few weeks ago, the Michoacán Attorney General’s Office reported that the case was 90% solved. The remaining 10%, a figure that would now be slightly lower following the arrest of Vargas, concerns the remaining members of the Ciudad Threema group.

Of the six suspects still unaccounted for, one may in fact be a man arrested months ago on allegations of fuel theft and other crimes while working under El Licenciado. Of the remaining five, three have already been identified and their arrests appear to be only a matter of time. Investigators have no information on another. The last is the link between La Pava and El Licenciado, whose capture also appears to be imminent.

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More than 80% of global merchandise trade is transported by sea, a vast share that, in times of peace, allows commerce to flow smoothly but, in times of turmoil, starkly reveals the oceans’ influence over the economy and consumers’ purchasing power. The closure of the Strait of Hormuz, a narrow waterway just over 20 miles wide through which 20% of the world’s oil consumption passed as recently as February, is a traumatic and unprecedented example of how disrupting maritime traffic through a strategic chokepoint can trigger a massive snowball effect. Less energy supply, a sudden spike in fuel prices, soaring shipping costs and higher inflation. It is impossible for the global economy to function independently of the sea.

The shockwave from the closure of Hormuz has been global and has hit the U.S. economy particularly hard. U.S. President Donald Trump likely never imagined that the conflict launched alongside Israel against Iran would last this long, or that it would drive gasoline and diesel prices for Americans to record highs. The collapse in maritime traffic through Hormuz has disrupted oil exports from the Persian Gulf and sharply increased transportation costs worldwide. According to analysts, higher shipping rates are adding more than $30 to the cost of each barrel of oil, roughly 10 times more than before the conflict.

Hormuz, with its enormous influence over the world’s energy supply, is the clearest example of the strategic importance of maritime straits to global trade and the economy. But the world is dotted with other waterways that are just as critical to the movement of goods and the shape of the geopolitical landscape. These are the so-called chokepoints: highly sensitive passages through which a significant share of global trade flows. Whoever controls them holds a lever capable of moving the world.

They do not even need to be blocked, as in Hormuz. A deterioration in weather conditions or security is enough to send ripples across the global economy. That is already happening in the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, which separates the Horn of Africa from the Arabian Peninsula and serves as the southern gateway to the Red Sea, before vessels pass through the Suez Canal on their way to Europe. Attacks by Yemen’s Houthi rebels against Saudi Arabia are threatening navigation in the area, which has never fully recovered since the militia disrupted traffic through the strait in 2023 and 2024 in protest against Israel’s offensive in Gaza.

For weather-related rather than military reasons, the Panama Canal is another hotspot. Drought linked to the El Niño phenomenon has forced the Panama Canal Authority to cut traffic and impose draft restrictions on vessels, as the canal’s locks require large volumes of water to operate.

The risk of disruption has also briefly hovered over the Strait of Malacca, located between Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia, which is one of the world’s busiest shipping routes, serving as the main corridor between Asia and Europe via the Indian Ocean. In April, Indonesia’s finance minister even floated the idea of introducing a toll, though he quickly walked back the proposal.

“The Strait of Hormuz is the major energy chokepoint; the Strait of Malacca is Asia’s major commercial and energy chokepoint,” notes Alicia García Herrero, chief economist for Asia-Pacific at Natixis.

Hormuz, Bab el-Mandeb, Suez, Panama and Malacca are the world’s key maritime chokepoints. Any disruption in these passages has an immediate impact on the global economy. But there are other strategically vital straits, including Gibraltar, the Bosporus and the Dardanelles in Turkey, the Taiwan Strait, Lombok and Sunda in Indonesia, and the English Channel. These critical passages are monitored daily by the powerful maritime industry: shipowners, shipping companies that manage the transport of goods, and insurers that cover vessels and cargo and also issue war-risk policies in times of conflict —premiums that have surged since the outbreak of the war against Iran. War-risk insurance premiums for ships transiting Hormuz have risen to between 3% and 10% of a vessel’s value, compared with around 0.25% before the conflict.

A study by the University of Oxford estimated last year that disruptions at maritime chokepoints cost the global economy about $192 billion annually, due to delivery delays, rerouting and higher insurance premiums. “The world has changed, but the consequences in terms of detour distances and costs remain the same,” one of the authors, Professor Jim Hall, said in an email.

In June, at the height of the Hormuz blockade, Allianz estimated that more than $125 billion worth of cargo was stranded aboard over 1,000 ships anchored in the area. In its latest report, published in October, the World Trade Organization warned that “upward momentum in trade may have stalled following the outbreak of the Middle East conflict.” Global container traffic volumes had reached record highs in February this year, but by July 2026 they had fallen by 2.5%, including a 4.0% decline in traffic through Chinese ports, according to the WTO.

Hormuz: An energy and financial chokepoint

“No shipping, no shopping” has long been a favorite slogan of the maritime industry, but it has never rung truer than it does today in Hormuz. Never before has this sea passage been completely shut down, and “there is no historical precedent in the sample for traffic at a major global chokepoint dropping to zero within days,” according to the Bank for International Settlements (BIS). The institution argues that Hormuz is the world’s most economically significant maritime chokepoint, not only because of its impact on energy supplies but also because of its financial implications.

Before the war, nearly a fifth of the world’s oil and liquefied natural gas passed through Hormuz, along with 13% of all chemicals traded globally, including fertilizers and plastics.

More than 130 vessels a day used to transit the strait. That figure has now fallen to around 20, driving up the price of these commodities and fueling broader inflationary pressures for which, so far, no ceiling is in sight as long as shipping disruptions persist. The crisis in Hormuz has, in fact, forced central banks to raise interest rates, twice in the case of the European Central Bank and once, its first increase in three years, in the case of the U.S. Federal Reserve. It has also contributed significantly to the current rise in bond yields, pushing up borrowing costs across the economy.

According to the BIS, the Strait of Hormuz is of “critical importance” to global financial stability and the world’s most consequential maritime chokepoint in terms of its influence on credit conditions. “The unique role of Hormuz as a chokepoint for global energy flows makes it a key variable in assessing financial vulnerabilities,” the BIS warns, underscoring its strategic importance.

Freight rates and the inflationary chain reaction

Shipping a tonne of oil from the Persian Gulf to China now costs around $237, compared with $25 in February, before the war. On a per-barrel basis, freight costs have risen from about $3.50 to more than $30, meaning they now account for more than a quarter of the price of Brent crude, compared with barely 2% to 3% before the conflict.

Transport costs have, in fact, become the main obstacle preventing fuel prices from easing, even as Gulf producers begin to increase their oil exports. What began as a supply crisis is increasingly turning into a maritime transport crisis. Meanwhile, fears that hostilities could flare up again in the Persian Gulf remain acute, helping to push Brent prices in recent days back to their April highs of around $116 a barrel.

“Even when there is supply, there is a shortage of vessels and shipping routes have become longer,” explains Jorge Molinero, an analyst at commodities platform Sparta. “What the war has done is reduce the effective supply of tankers through several channels at once. The global fleet may be unchanged [since building a ship takes years], but many tankers have been stranded inside the Gulf. At the same time, voyages have become longer. Shipments that once travelled from the Gulf to Asia are being replaced by crude from more distant origins, which means more days at sea and fewer ships available.”

On top of that, war-risk insurance premiums for tankers have soared, a cost that shipowners are passing on through higher freight rates. The same pattern can be seen elsewhere. Freight rates for tankers sailing from the United States to Europe reached about $188 per tonne in October, an all-time high and nearly four times the level recorded in February.

“Tankers have been redeployed and voyages are longer, so there is a shortage of ships everywhere,” Molinero adds. With renewed tensions around Bab el-Mandeb, vessels avoiding the Red Sea and carrying crude to Europe via the Cape of Good Hope can add as much as two weeks to their journey.

Tankers have become the most valuable assets in global shipping, particularly for traders and energy companies that do not own fleets and must charter vessels on the open market. According to maritime consultancy Clarksons Research, average weighted tanker earnings exceeded $200,000 per day by late September. In the case of VLCCs (Very Large Crude Carriers), which can transport around two million barrels of oil, daily earnings have reached $600,000, roughly 17 times their average level over the past decade. But the impact of the disruption in Hormuz extends far beyond oil and is rippling across the entire transport chain.

“Rising crude and refined product prices are pushing up the cost of marine fuel, jet fuel and road freight, which in turn raises transport costs worldwide,” says Izabela Listowska, head transport analyst at S&P Global Ratings.

Container shipping lines have also imposed emergency surcharges to offset higher fuel and operating costs, rerouting expenses and rising insurance premiums. “For example, for a container carrying 10,000 pairs of adult shoes, an emergency surcharge of $3,000 per container would add around $0.30 per pair to shipping costs,” Listowska explains in an email. Freight rates on the route from China to the U.S. West Coast have climbed to $7,500 per 40-foot container, up from $1,850 at the end of February.

China’s search for routes beyond Malacca

The disruption of shipping through Hormuz has affected not only energy prices but the entire maritime logistics chain. Yet if there is one strait whose closure would deal a truly devastating blow to global trade, it is Malacca.

According to García Herrero, “Roughly one-third of global maritime trade passes through it and, in terms of volume, more oil now flows through Malacca than through Hormuz [around 23 million barrels a day compared with about 21 million]. It is critical for China, Japan and South Korea: nearly 80% of China’s imported oil passes through the strait.”

There are alternatives to Malacca, such as Indonesia’s Lombok and Sunda straits, but they are slower and more expensive. Anticipating the possibility of a disruption at this strategic choke point, China has developed a network of pipelines bringing crude oil from Russia, Central Asia and Myanmar, alongside a chain of ports stretching across the Indian Ocean. This network is known as the “String of Pearls”: commercial facilities with clear potential military value, including Gwadar in Pakistan, Hambantota in Sri Lanka, Kyaukpyu in Myanmar and Chittagong in Bangladesh.

“China is a power and is surrounded by governments that may become threats, such as Japan or Taiwan,” explains Emilio Rodríguez‑Díaz, director of the Department of Navigation Sciences and Naval Construction at the University of Cádiz in Spain and an expert in maritime security.

Trade protection and geopolitics converge in China’s maritime strategy. Beijing recently launched a regular commercial route linking Asia and Europe through the Arctic by way of the Northern Sea Route, which is under Russian control. While the route is highly seasonal and handles relatively small cargo volumes, China sees it as an “Ice Silk Road” because it allows ships to travel from China to Europe in roughly 20 days, about half the time required via Suez, while bypassing Hormuz, Malacca and the Red Sea.

As García Herrero notes, “It does not replace Suez or Malacca on a large scale, but it does give Beijing another card to play in its contest with Washington.”

The contest for global supremacy is therefore also being fought at sea. That helps explain Donald Trump’s determination to secure influence over Hormuz and Greenland.

“For decades the United States has been the great defender of freedom of navigation, and now it is seeking to secure control of specific points,” explains Judith Arnal, senior researcher at the Elcano Royal Institute. “It escorts the tankers of its Gulf partners in Hormuz while blocking Iranian exports; it even proposed in July to charge for that protection, and it has signed an agreement with Denmark and Greenland that allows it to expand its military presence on the island.”

A new reality

With Trump seeking greater control over key maritime routes and Iran planning to levy transit fees on ships passing through Hormuz, what lies ahead for maritime security? The Strait remains the Gordian knot at the center of the energy and shipping crisis, but “for maritime traffic through the Strait of Hormuz to return to normal, blockades and attacks on vessels would have to cease and safe passage would need to be guaranteed,” warns Niels Rasmussen, chief shipping analyst at the Baltic and International Maritime Council (BIMCO), the world’s leading shipping association. For now, Rasmussen adds, most shipowners believe the risks of transiting Hormuz are too high.

A return to normality will require a credible and lasting agreement between Iran and the United States, and even that may not be enough. “Insurers and shipowners demand proof of sustained stability before they consider an area that was previously in conflict to be normal,” says Listowska. “After the memorandum of understanding signed in June between the U.S. and Iran, we observed greater insurance capacity return to the market, but premiums remained well above pre‑war levels.”

Deflating the massive shock that the war with Iran has inflicted on global shipping will not be easy, even once the conflict eventually ends. Reopening a strait can happen relatively quickly if there is a political agreement, but restoring pre-conflict security conditions and confidence in the rules of navigation is a much slower process.

“Iran has charged some vessels for crossing Hormuz and is considering legislation to formalize this. And the United States even announced a 20% toll on cargo,” recalls Arnal.

The long-term scars that the war with Iran will leave on maritime trade remain uncertain, even if the disruption is currently at its peak.

“I resist the notion that the international legal order governing the seas has somehow disappeared simply because serious regional disturbances are taking place in certain parts of the world,” says Antonios Tzanakopoulos, professor of Public International Law at the University of Oxford’s Faculty of Law. He points out that risks to navigation have fluctuated throughout history. “More than a decade ago, risks in the Gulf of Aden were significant due to piracy, and today they are less so.”

Only time will tell whether the unprecedented closure of Hormuz leaves the world with permanently higher shipping costs.

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