The lush green orchards of Michoacán, Mexico, stretch for miles, their branches heavy with one of the world’s most coveted fruits: the avocado. Yet beneath the idyllic surface of this multi-billion-dollar industry lies a darker reality. The region’s avocado trade, often referred to as "green gold," is tightly controlled by violent cartels, earning them the ominous nickname "Avocado Mafia." These criminal syndicates have embedded themselves so deeply into the supply chain that their influence now dictates global prices, leaving farmers, exporters, and consumers at the mercy of their brutal tactics.

Michoacán, the heartland of Mexico’s avocado production, supplies nearly half of the world’s avocados. The fruit’s soaring popularity, particularly in the United States, has turned it into a lucrative commodity. But where there is money, there is also crime. Over the past decade, drug cartels—most notably the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) and the Knights Templar—have diversified their operations, moving beyond narcotics to extort avocado growers, packers, and truckers. Farmers are forced to pay "protection fees" to keep their families safe and their orchards untouched. Those who resist face kidnappings, arson, or worse.

The cartels’ grip on the supply chain has introduced extreme volatility into avocado prices. A single act of violence—a blocked highway, a torched packing plant—can send shockwaves through international markets. In 2022, the U.S. briefly suspended avocado imports from Michoacán after a USDA inspector received a threatening phone call. Overnight, prices in American supermarkets spiked by nearly 30%. Such disruptions are becoming alarmingly frequent, with no end in sight. "It’s not just about drugs anymore," says a local journalist who covers organized crime. "The cartels have realized that controlling food is just as profitable—and far less risky."

For the farmers, life under the cartels is a precarious balancing act. Many operate on razor-thin margins, and the extortion payments—often 20% or more of their profits—push them deeper into debt. Some have abandoned their land altogether, fleeing north to escape the violence. Those who stay are caught in an impossible bind: reporting the cartels to authorities invites retaliation, while silence perpetuates the cycle. "We are trapped," says one grower, speaking on condition of anonymity. "If we don’t pay, we die. If we do pay, we starve."

The Mexican government’s efforts to dismantle the avocado cartels have been sporadic at best. Military patrols and high-profile arrests occasionally make headlines, but the underlying system remains intact. Corruption runs deep, with local officials often colluding with the very gangs they’re supposed to combat. Meanwhile, U.S. demand for avocados continues to grow, inadvertently bankrolling the violence. Supermarket chains and food distributors, under pressure to keep shelves stocked, rarely question the origins of their shipments—as long as the supply keeps flowing.

Consumers, too, are largely unaware of the human cost behind their avocado toast. The fruit’s trendy health halo obscures the bloodshed required to deliver it. Ethical sourcing initiatives exist, but they’re a drop in the bucket compared to the cartels’ overwhelming control. "People don’t want to think about it," says an importer based in California. "They just want their guacamole."

As the avocado trade grows, so does the cartels’ ambition. Recent intelligence reports suggest they’re expanding into other agricultural sectors, from limes to berries. The playbook remains the same: infiltrate, extort, and exploit. Until governments and corporations take coordinated action—or consumers demand transparency—the cycle of violence and price instability will only intensify. In Michoacán, the orchards may still bloom, but their fruit carries a bitter aftertaste.