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An Overlooked Success: How the Failed Annexation of Santo Domingo led to the Successful Prosecution of the Ku Klux Klan

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The 19th century in American history is marked by rapid territorial expansion, from the Louisiana Purchase to the Mexican-American War. By 1850, the continental U.S. had taken a familiar shape. The Civil War interrupted this expansion as the nation grappled with the future of slavery and the role of the federal government. However, at the close of the war, during Reconstruction (1865-1877), territorial expansion resumed with the purchase of Alaska and the failed annexation of Santo Domingo, modern-day Dominican Republic. Yet, this attempt at expansion stands out from other additions to U.S. territory. The Annexation was not merely a land grab but a Reconstruction project, recognized as such by both its supporters and its detractors. It yielded no territorial gains, but surprisingly, it was this political fight over Santo Domingo that helped achieve one of Reconstruction’s great successes: the Prosecution of the Ku Klux Klan—America’s first organized terrorist threat.

On the first of July 1870, The Baltimore Sun reported that “The treaty for the annexation of the island of San Domingo to the United States was rejected by the Senate this afternoon by a vote of 28 to 28, being ten less than the required two-thirds to secure its ratification.”[1] The tie vote also saw thirteen abstentions, effectively killing what had become a pet project of President Ulysses S. Grant, though the initiative did not start with him. In 1867, Grant’s predecessor, President Johnson, intervened with the government of the recently independent Santo Domingo to aid in its defense against raids from Haiti. In his fourth annual message to Congress in 1868, Johnson detailed the support provided to Santo Domingo and expressed the desirability of acquiring land suitable for a naval base. He also proposed the idea of annexing both republics on the island of Hispaniola: Santo Domingo and Haiti.[2] However, Congress seemed uninterested in this suggestion, mainly because it had already allocated 7.2 million dollars to purchase Alaska in the spring of 1867, under the Johnson Administration.[3]

A High Price to Pay

During the Civil War, Russia was the only major European power to support the Union. Secretary of State William Seward[4] framed the purchase of Alaska as a gesture of goodwill towards the Czar, who was contending with his own conflict in Crimea.[5] Moreover, Congress appeared reluctant to purchase more land, particularly after the establishment of the Joint Special Committee on Retrenchment in 1866, aimed at cutting government spending.[6] The Civil War had cost nearly $5.2 billion, leaving a remaining debt of $3 billion (unadjusted for inflation). To put it into perspective, the annual budget of the government at the start of the war was $63.1 million. This financial reality made it clear in Washington that cost-cutting measures were necessary.[7] Additionally, President Johnson began losing allies in Congress that had helped him with the Alaska deal since he had tried to fire Secretary of War Edwin Stanton in violation of the Tenure of Office Act, resulting in Johnson’s impeachment in February of 1868.[8] While Congress would not find Johnson guilty nor remove him from office, the American people effectively did so by electing Ulysses S. Grant in November 1868.

Picture of Annexation demonstration in San Domingo City--the Seybo regiment in the citadel, bearing the U.S. colors
Annexation demonstration in San Domingo City–the Seybo regiment in the citadel, bearing the U.S. colors. Source: Library of Congress

In his relatively short first inaugural address, President Grant spoke of bolstering law enforcement in the South as new terror threats arose, touched on a foreign policy of mutual respect, promised to see the 15th Amendment ratified, and pledged to pursue respectful policies regarding the Native Americans. As important as these subjects were, Grant spent most of his inaugural address talking about debt[9]: “A great debt has been contracted in securing to us and our posterity the Union. The payment of this, principal and interest, as well as the return to a specie basis as soon as it can be accomplished without material detriment to the debtor class or to the country at large, must be provided for.” [10] In over two paragraphs, he laid down a clear mandate to cut spending and pay off the debt.

Indeed, Grant would succeed in this reconstruction project by 1870, having reduced the public debt to $3.1 billion.[11] For Grant and many other radical Republicans, paying off the debt was a part of Reconstruction. However, this prioritization of debt reduction would undermine Congressional support for other Reconstruction projects like the Freedman’s Bureau and the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo. Opposition to the purchase was often linked to its financial cost, as well as broader tensions surrounding the abolition of slavery and the challenges of Reconstruction. While prejudice against the Dominican people was a factor for some, the resistance seemed more rooted in larger national debates of the era than in targeted animosity toward Santo Domingo. Democrat Representative Fernando Wood would say in debating against the treaty, “I am opposed to the San Domingo annexation, not only because of a large sum of money at this time, but also it is another step in the demoralization of the American People”[12]. In this case, “demoralization” refers to the effects of Grant’s Reconstruction.

Map of Provincia de santo Domingo 1861 - for An Overlooked Success
Provincia de Santo Domingo 1861. Source: Wikimedia Commons

In a letter to President Baez from President Grant on July 13, 1869. This tells us Buenaventura Baez reached out to Grant sometime between January and July 1869. Whatever Baez’s emissary said to Grant piqued his curiosity enough to greet him as a “Great and Good Friend. In the letter, Grant tells Baez that he would be sending Brevet Brigadier General Orville E. Babcock[13] as a special agent to assess the viability of annexing Santo Domingo.[14] Babcock went on to make two trips to the island and serve as the President’s chief emissary in the annexation negotiations. Once there, Babcock quickly realized the extent of Santo Domingo’s disputes with its neighbor, Haiti, with whom it shared the island of Hispaniola. Although Haiti was the smaller country on the island, it had a larger population compared with the sparsely populated Santo Domingo.[15] After gaining independence from Spain in 1821, Haiti invaded Santo Domingo within weeks, leading to a period of occupation. Despite its disadvantage in manpower, Santo Domingo prevailed in the face of a Haitian occupation until 1844.[16] Following its independence, Haitian raids along the borders became a regular occurrence. During this period of rising Dominican nationalism, caudillos (military strongmen or dictators) like Buenaventura Baez seized the moment to gain power, often for personal enrichment. Baez increased military spending to ward off Hattian raids, but this led to a mounting national debt, which reached $1.3 million by 1859[17]. As a result, Baez began seeking protectorate assistance from foreign powers, including the United States.[18]. In his diaries from his second trip to the Island, Babcock notes, “He (Baez) seemed in good spirit, much in favor of annex.”[19] Indeed, there seemed to be widespread support within Santo Domingo.

The Role of Fredrick Douglass

When Babcock returned to Grant, having confirmed that Baez was interested in Santo Domingo being annexed, Grant began using his influence to promote the idea. When word had reached Charles Sumner, he asserted that the people of Santo Doming were opposed to such an arrangement. In response, Grant enlisted Fredrick Douglass to travel to the island in 1871 and determine whether the citizens would support such a move. Douglass had long advocated for normalizing relations with black republics such as Haiti and Santo Domingo.[20] In 1873 he was happy to report that “they want to join their country to the United States and to become citizens of the United States.”[21] While Douglass’ report was based on anecdotal evidence from his conversations with the island’s inhabitants, there had also been a referendum ordered by President Baez with an admittedly low turnout. Still, of the 15,169 votes cast, only 11 were cast against annexation.[22] Despite this turnout, people like Douglas and Grant pointed to this result to demonstrate a political will on the part of the Dominican people to join the US.

Portrait of Frederick Douglass
Retouched portrait of Frederick Douglass taken in the 1840s. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Frederick Douglass was not simply advocating for territorial expansion. He viewed the annexation of the island as an opportunity to challenge prevailing prejudices and demonstrate the potential for all people, regardless of race. In his lecture on the annexation of Santo Domingo, Douglas compared the Spanish and French attempts to reenslave the black and mulatto inhabitants to the actions of the Klan in the South, who, after being paroled at Appomattox now formed a terrorist group to strengthen white supremacy. In his own words: “The fact is significant and has a lesson for those men in our county who are still endeavoring by violence and midnight crimes to worry the American negro back into slavery. The negro is no less a man here than in Santo Domingo.”[23] Thus, for Douglass, the annexation of Santo Domingo was closely associated with Reconstruction and civil rights, providing African Americans in the South with an example of resistance to white supremacy. Grant, like Douglas, linked the proposed annexation to the widespread terror of the Ku Klux Klan across the South.

Annexation as Part of Reconstruction

Grant’s first term was marked by intractable domestic issues, from the fight for the Fifteenth Amendment to the war he waged against the Ku Klux Klan in the South. Thus, he turned to foreign policy for what he thought would be an easy victory via the annexation of Santo Domingo. When he argued for annexation, he cited all the usual reasons for the acquisition, such as fertile soil and tropical produce, and strategic interests, such as having a naval base in the Caribbean to bolster the Monroe Doctrine, all common arguments made by the initiative’s supporters in Congress. But Grant went even further. In a memorandum issued to the State Department describing the benefits of the proposed annexation, Grant writes:

Caste has no foothold in San Domingo. It is capable of supporting the entire colored population of the United States, should it choose to emigrate. The present difficulty in bringing all parts of the United States to a happy unity and love of country grows out of the color prejudice. The prejudice is a senseless one, but it exists. The colored man cannot be spared until his place is supplied, but with a refuge like San Domingo, his worth here would soon be discovered, and he would soon receive such recognition as to induce him to stay.[24]

Frederick Douglass (seated, left) with The Commissioners to Santo Domingo for An Overlooked Success
Frederick Douglass (seated, left) with The Commissioners to Santo Domingo, Brooklyn Navy Yard, January 1871. Source: Getty’s Open Content Program.

The quote above shows that the annexation of Santo Domingo was wrapped up in Grant’s vision for Reconstruction. This excerpt shows that Grant wanted to keep Black communities in the US while also providing them with a refuge from Ku Klux violence. By the time of this writing, the emigration movement had gained considerable traction, even among the freedmen’s community. With the advent of Klan terror in the South, many Black communities sought refuge in places like Haiti and Liberia. Elias Hill, a notable leader of a Black church from South Carolina—where Klan activity had been incredibly violent—led the whole of his congregation in a move to Liberia.[25] However, offering a place to flee wasn’t the only way Grant linked Santo Domingo to Reconstruction. He also saw the annexation of Santo Domingo as a way of ending slavery in other parts of the hemisphere. In a speech after the treaty was rejected, Grant urged Congress to reconsider, arguing that an American government on the island would prompt enslaved people in the Caribbean to flee to Santo Domingo as a refuge. He further asserted that “Porto Rico and Cuba will have to abolish slavery as a measure of self-preservation to retain their laborers.”[26]

Grant wasn’t the only one that connected Santo Domingo to the Reconstruction, those opposed the annexation also made this link. In 1870, many of the arguments used by Democrats against the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment were echoed in their opposition to annexing Santo Domingo. Representative Fernando Wood, for instance, recycled his arguments against the Fifteenth Amendment in a Congressional debate stating, “As wicked as is the attempt to compel the fusion of two such opposite races existing among ourselves, it would be far more suicidal and criminal to add the people of San Domingo also.”[27] Importantly, when Wood referred to the “fusion of two opposite races,” he was speaking of the impact of the amendment on the communities of freed blacks born in the United States, as it granted them citizenship. Indeed, the democrats’ opposition to the proposed annexation reflected their broader resistance to naturalizing freed Blacks.

Picture of Ulysses S. Grant on horseback - for An Overlooked Success
Ulysses S Grant on horseback. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Predictably, Democrats opposed the annexation of a Latin American republic with a significant Black and mixed-race population. Still, those sentiments were shared by less radical Republicans like Senator Justin S. Morrill, who allied with Charles Sumner in his opposition to the treaty. In an 1871 speech, Morill spoke of the formerly enslaved Americans who had recently been made citizens by the 15th Amendment, saying, “It is useless to disguise the fact that the people of a portion of our present territory have not become assimilated with the American people and American Institutions, and the time when they will do so must be computed, not in years, but by generations.”[28] Even critics of the acquisition recognized the connection between the proposed annexation and Reconstruction. Sentiments like those expressed by Morrill and Sumner led to fissures in the Republican party, leaving President Grant feeling betrayed.

A Misunderstanding with Mr. Sumner

Ultimately, it was Charles Sumner’s refusal, as Chair of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, which prevented the treaty from being passed. While he had supported the annexation of Alaska just a few years earlier, he refused to admit Santo Domingo. Sumner, along with Thadeus Stevens, had led the radical wing of the Republican party, but the two began to diverge when it came to handling Reconstruction. The more radical Stevens thought the South should be treated as conquered territory, while Sumner sought a conditioned reconciliation with the South.[29] Due to his leadership among the Radicals and his well-established support for Reconstruction, Grant expected Sumner’s support. Before moves had been made in Congress, Grant shared an early draft of the treaty with Sumner, to which Sumner promised his “friendly consideration.” Grant, still relatively new to politics, interpreted this as support for the acquisition.[30] This misunderstanding undermined Grant’s efforts to secure the treaty and led to him to push for a vote in the Senate without the necessary support from his party.

Sumner had his reasons for not supporting the treaty, some of which, as noted above, were rooted on pseudoscientific ideas of geographic racial determination.[31] But Sumner also sympathized with the Dominican nationalist arguments and distrusted Baez, whom he viewed as a despot trying to sell off his country. “A convention was appointed, not elected, which proceeded to nominate Baez for the term of four years, not as President, but as Dictator. Declining the latter title, the triumphant conspirator accepted that of Garn Ciudadano or Grand Citizen with unlimited powers…Naturally, such a man would sell his own country.” [32] Siding with the Dominican Nationalists, Sumner thought that support for the treaty represented a betrayal of its inhabitants by Baez, who he characterized as a villain.

Painting of General Gregorio Luperón
General Gregorio Luperón – Monumento a los Héroes de la Restauración.
Source: Wikimedia Commons

A correspondent of Sumner’s, General Gregorio Luperón, a leader in the Dominican Nationalist movement, wrote to Grant in late 1869 expressing his anger with the U.S. Navy in the sinking of the Telegraph, a ship used to transport Dominican Nationalists from Haiti to Cuba. President Johnson sank the ship as part of his established protectorate, but now he directed his anger squarely at Grant. The General wrote, “Spain, in spite of its traditional quixotism, rejected the cowardly Baez’s undignified petition, and to our understanding, the Spanish Government’s course of action was more honorable than yours…Your Excellency had the weakness to order, to authorize the destruction of Telegraph, accepting the immoral decree of Baez’s mercenary Senate.”[33] Issuing the protectorate and the actions of the U.S. Navy were primary reasons for Sumner’s opposition, and would cite incidents like the sinking of the Telegraph in his arguments against the annexation: “It is difficult to see how we can condemn with proper, whole-hearted reprobation, our own domestic Ku Klux with its fearful outrages while the President puts himself at the head of a powerful and costly proceeding operating abroad in defiance of International Law and the Constitution of the United States.”[34] For Sumner, Grant’s actions, which he viewed as violations of the Constitution and an “usurpation of war powers,” undermined the moral authority Grant had built through his prosecutions of the Klan.

The Santo Domingo Purge

In the fight for the annexation treaty, many in Grant’s cabinet saw that Santo Domingo was a losing battle long before Grant. Grant pressed on, ordering his department heads to spend political capital to have the treaty passed. Despite these efforts, support for the treaty was never strong. After many in his cabinet had sided with Charles Sumner, whose support was crucial, Grant began to rail against his disloyal cabinet. According to a diary entry by Secretary of State Hamilton Fish, Grant claimed that “the Secretary of the Interior is opposed to it; the Attorney-General says nothing in its favor, but sneers at it; and the Secretary of Treasury does not open his mouth.”[35] Indeed, Grant’s break with Sumner and less radical Republicans led to a purge within his cabinet, and he began dismissing all those members of his administration who served Sumner. While this may initially appear vindictive, there was some positive outcomes. Attorney General Ebenezer Hoar, a long-time friend of Charles Sumner who had opposed the treaty, Was initially recommended for the position of AG by Sumner. On July 15, 1870, Hoar received a letter requesting his resignation.[36] A month earlier, Grant submitted a new name for Attorney General, a man named Amos T. Akerman.[37]

But Akerman’s work as head of the new Department of Justice has largely been a footnote to history. Akerman, a former Confederate officer who has become a staunch Republican, had been personally threatened by the Klan for his shift in allegiance. He would go on to aggressively prosecute the Klan, effectively dismantling the organization for nearly four decades.[38] His appointment seems providential, considering the Act to Establish the Department of Justice does not mention civil rights.[39] Furthermore, it was the Joint Select Committee on Retrenchment and not a judiciary committee that passed it. This represented a move toward civil service reform and a cost-saving measure.[40] Indeed, Akerman ran up against repeated funding shortages throughout the Klan trials. However, Akerman oversaw the prosecutions heavily and even directly called on Grant to suspend the writ of habeas corpus in several counties in South Carolina. While coincidental, the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo led directly to one of the most successful reconstruction projects, the prosecution of the Ku Klux Klan.[41] What appeared to be a typical territorial land grab was, in fact, closely connected to the broader goals of the Reconstruction.

Conclusion

In the end, the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo failed, defeated by a strange alliance between well-meaning radical Republicans and racist Democrats, killing Grant pet project and limiting his vision for Reconstruction. Yet, the political fight over Santo Domingo played a pivotal role in staffing the newly founded Department of Justice with a leader who possessed the will to Prosecute the Ku Klux Klan. Unlike other territorial expansions, this attempt was directly linked to the question of Reconstruction, and not only by President Grant and his supporters, but also by those opposed to the treaty. Regardless of the failure to secure the annexation, it is clear that the debate surrounding this Reconstruction initiative contributed  to one of the era’s greatest successes.

Acknowledgements:
This article originates in Dr. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra’s capstone undergraduate seminar.

Miguel Angel Canto Jr. is a first-generation college student and hopeful law school applicant, expected to graduate this May with a Bachelor’s in History and Philosophy. He is working on his undergraduate honors thesis on the establishment of the U.S. Department of Justice. His research interests include the legal history, history of ideas, history of republics and American history, particularly Reconstruction and the Gilded Age.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

[1] “The San Domingo Treaty Rejected,” The Baltimore Sun, July 1, 1870, https://www.newspapers.com/article/the-baltimore-sun-the-san-domingo-treaty/158127723/.

[2] “December 8, 1868: Fourth Annual Message to Congress | Miller Center,” October 20, 2016, https://millercenter.org/the-presidency/presidential-speeches/december-8-1868-fourth-annual-message-congress.

[3] United States and Russia, eds., Treaty Concerning the Cession of the Russian Possessions in North America by His Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias to the United States of America (Washington, 1867), https://www.loc.gov/resource/gdcmassbookdig.treatyconcerning00unit/.

[4] Secretary of State for President Abraham Lincoln and Andrew Johnson.

[5] “The Alaska Purchase, Articles and Essays, Meeting of Frontiers, Digital Collections,” web page, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA, accessed December 1, 2024, https://www.loc.gov/collections/meeting-of-frontiers/articles-and-essays/alaska/the-alaska-purchase/.

[6] The 39th Congress, “Concurrent Resolution Providing for a Joint Select Committee on Retrenchment” (Congressional Globe, 1866).

[7] “History of the Debt,” TreasuryDirect, accessed August 28, 2024, https://www.treasurydirect.gov/government/historical-debt-outstanding/.

[8] “The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson | Century Presentations | Articles and Essays | A Century of Lawmaking for a New Nation: U.S. Congressional Documents and Debates 1774-1875 | Digital Collections | Library of Congress,” web page, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA, accessed October 19, 2024, https://www.loc.gov/collections/century-of-lawmaking/articles-and-essays/century-presentations/impeachment/.

[9] Grant Ulysses, “First Inaugural Addresses of Ulysses S. Grant,” Text, Inaugural Addresses of the Presidents of the United States (Washington, D.C.: U.S. G.P.O.: for sale by the Supt. of Docs., U.S. G.P.O., 1989, March 4, 1869), https://avalon.law.yale.edu/19th_century/grant1.asp.

[10] First Inaugural Addresses, Grant, 1869.

[11] “Public Debt of the United States. 1870, 1880, 1890 and 1902. [Washington, D. C. 1903].,” online text, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA, accessed December 4, 2024, https://www.loc.gov/resource/rbpe.2080020a/?st=gallery.

[12] United States Congress, “The Congressional Globe: Containing the Debates and Proceedings of the Second Session Forty-First Congress; Together with an Appendix, Embracing the Laws Passed at That Session,  (1870): 3034-3038.,” Book, UNT Digital Library (John C. Rives, 1870), United States, https://digital.library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc30886/m1/209/.

[13] Babcock had served as one of Grant’s aides-de-camp during the Civil War.

[14] “Letter to President Buenaventura Baez of the Dominican Republic | The American Presidency Project,” accessed November 6, 2024, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/letter-president-buenaventura-baez-the-dominican-republic.

[15] John B. Crume, President Grant and His Santo Domingo Project: A Study of Ill Judgement (Florida Atlantic University, 1972) p. 11.

[16] “History of the Dominican Republic, Government, Facts, President, & Flag, Britannica,” October 28, 2024, https://www.britannica.com/topic/history-of-Dominican-Republic.

[17] Commission of Inquiry to Santo Domingo, “Report of the Commission of Inquiry to Santo Domingo” 1 (1871): I–II, https://heinonline.org/HOL/P?h=hein.cow/reciqsadm0001&i=1, p. 178.

[18] Luis Martínez-Fernández, “Caudillos, Annexationism, and the Rivalry between Empires in the Dominican Republic, 1844–1874,” Diplomatic History 17, no. 4 (1993): 571–97, https://www.jstor.org/stable/24912228.

[19] Orville E. Babcock, “Orville E. Babcock Diary: The Second Journey to Santo Domingo November 8th to December 2nd, 1869” (Mississippi State University, 1869).

[20] Merline Pitre, “Frederick Douglass and the Annexation of Santo Domingo,” The Journal of Negro History 62, no. 4 (October 1977): 390–400, https://www-jstor-org.ezproxy.lib.utexas.edu/stable/2717114.

[21] Frederick Douglass, “Frederick Douglass Papers: Speech, Article, and Book File, 1846-1894; Speeches and Articles by Douglass, 1846-1894; Undated; ‘Santo Domingo,’ Manuscripts, Typescripts, and Fragments; 1 of 5” (1873), mss11879, box 28; reel 18, Manuscript Division, https://www.loc.gov/resource/mss11879.28013/.

[22] Harold T. Pinkett, “Efforts to Annex Santo Domingo to the United States, 1866-1871,” The Journal of Negro History 26, no. 1 (January 1941): 12–45, https://doi.org/10.2307/2715048.

[23] Douglass, “Frederick Douglass Papers.”

[24] Ulysses S. Grant, “Memorandum,” The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant, November 1,1869-October 31, 1870, edit. John Simon, vol. 20 (Mississippi State University, 1995), https://scholarsjunction.msstate.edu/usg-volumes/20, p. 74.

[25] Scott Farris, Freedom on Trial: The First Post-Civil War Battle over Civil Rights and Voter Suppression (Guilford, Connecticut: Lyons Press, 2020,) p. 59.

[26] Ulysses S. Grant, “Making the Case for US Annexation,” in The Dominican Republic Reader : History, Culture, Politics, ed. Eric P. Roorda and et al. (Durham and London: Duke University Press, n.d.), 158–60, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/utxa/detail.action?docID=1689436.

[27] United States Congress, “The Congressional Globe: Containing the Debates and Proceedings of the Second Session Forty-First Congress; Together with an Appendix, Embracing the Laws Passed at That Session, (1870): 3034-3038.,” Book, UNT Digital Library (John C. Rives, 1870), United States, https://digital.library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc30886/m1/209/, p. 1187.

[28] Justin S. Morrill, “Opposition to US Annexation,” in The Dominican Republic Reader: History, Culture, Politics, ed. Eric P. Roorda, et al. (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2014), https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/utxa/detail.action?docID=1689436.

[29] Fergus M. Bordewich, Klan War: Ulysses S. Grant and the Battle to Save Reconstruction, First United States edition (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2023,) p. 14-15.

[30] Chernow, Grant, p. 691-692.

[31] Hidalgo, “Charles Sumner and the Annexation of the Dominican Republic.”

[32] Charles Sumner, “Speech of Hon. Charles Sumner of Massachusetts on the St. Domingo Resolutions; Delivered in the Senate of the United States,” March 27, 1871, HathiTrust, https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.35112102553197&seq=3&q1=santo+domingo.

[33] Gregorio Luperón, “Dominican Nationalism versus Annexation,” in The Dominican Republic Reader : History, Culture, Politics, ed. Eric P. Roorda and et al. (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2014), 171–72, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/utxa/reader.action?docID=1689436&ppg=188.

[34] Sumner, “Speech of Hon. Charles Sumner of Massachusetts on the St. Domingo Resolutions; Delivered in the Senate of the United States.”

[35] Chernow, Grant, p. 698.

[36] Ulysses S. Grant, From Grant to Hoar, The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant, November 1,1869-October 31, 1870, ed. John Simon, vol. 20 (Mississippi State University, 1995), https://scholarsjunction.msstate.edu/usg-volumes/20, p. 170.

[37] Ulysses S. Grant, Appointment of Amos T. Akerman The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant, November 1,1869-October 31, 1870, ed. John Simon, vol. 20 (Mississippi State University, 1995), https://scholarsjunction.msstate.edu/usg-volumes/20.

[38] Farris, Freedom on Trial, p. 78.

[39]An Act to Establish the Department of Justice.” P.L. 41-97 Stat.162, 1870 U.S.C. 41st Congress. Justice.gov, 2013. https://www.justice.gov/sites/default/files/jmd/legacy/2013/10/23/act-pl41-97.pdf.

[40]Jed Handelsman Shugerman, “The Creation of the Department of Justice: Professionalization Without Civil Rights or Civil Service,” Stanford Law Review 66, no. 1 (2014): 121–72, https://www.jstor.org/stable/24246730.

[41] Farris, p. 283.

NEP’s Archive Chronicles: An experiential approach to the Archive of the Indies

NEP’S Archive Chronicles explores the role archives play in historical research, offering insight into the process of conducting archival work and research. Each installment will offer a unique perspective on the treasures and challenges researchers encounter in archives around the world. NEP’s Archive Chronicles is intended to be both a practical guide and a space for reflection, showcasing contributors’ experiences with archival research. This two-part installment explores the Archive of Indies in Spain and shares research tips on how to navigate its digital platform, PARES.

For nearly a decade, I experienced the largest imperial archive of the Americas from afar. In Mexico City, Guadalajara, and Austin I logged countless times onto a website called PARES (Portal de Archivos Estatales), a clunky but essential tool for those in need to peruse the Spanish State Archives. The most recent iteration of the PARES website allows you to create an account called a “Notepad” where you can save archival references and digitized documents. Below a selection of documents that I vowed to myself I would look in person one day:

  • Dibujo de un bisonte
  • Plano, elevación y perfil de una casa para habitación del Catedrático de Botánica
  • Alojanieve, pulperías, salinas y solimán
  • Consulta del Consejo de Indias
  • Ensalada de los Navegantes: Disertación phisicobotánico-médica

I have yet to see these documents.

Even though PARES contains the online catalog and millions of digitized documents from twelve archives, most of the items I have collected over the years come from a single repository, the Archivo General de Indias, known to most scholars as the AGI. In 2013, I did not understand what kind of archive the AGI was, let alone grasp the magnitude of its holdings. All I knew is that I had to visit someday if I wanted to become a respected Historian (una historiadora consagrada). Why such a visit was necessary truly escaped me. Up to that point, I had learned that historians of science worked mostly with print material and archives of renowned scientists and scientific institutions. As I tried to piece together the dispersal and loss of the visual culture produced in the Royal Botanical Expedition to New Spain, I longed to visit the Royal Botanical Garden of Madrid and its archive. This kind of repository was closer to the natural history collections I had known as an undergraduate while I worked at Mexico’s National Herbarium. And yet, I continued filling my PARES notepad with items from the Archive of the Indies and collecting archival references from the secondary literature I consulted.

It would take me at least another five years to learn why this archive was relevant to those studying the history of science and knowledge in the early modern Iberian world and beyond. Important books and scholars (including my own advisor and fellow colleagues) helped me understand that the Spanish Empire was held together by a large bureaucratic apparatus that was capacious enough to collect information about almost anything and anywhere. From taxes and commercial disputes to the number of trees planted in Chapultepec, the bundles of documents or legajos at the Archive of the Indies are a true unknown to the researcher, each carrying in their pages a unique blend of calamity, confusion, hope, excitement, and occasional boredom. However, finding what you need is rarely a straightforward journey. The AGI’s vast holdings are spread across seventeen main archival sections, including a relatively new addition listed in PARES as ADAGI (Archive of the Archive of the Indies). How then, does one determine where your archival journey should begin at the AGI?

Picture of boxes of Casa de Contratación for NEP's Archive Chronicles
Figure 1. These boxes at the original building of the AGI, La Casa de Lonja, emulate the classic cover of a legajo. The archive’s reading room is now located at the Cilla del Cabildo building. Image taken by the author.

The easiest and most practical answer lies, of course, in PARES. In principle, it should simply be a matter of compiling the archival references saved in one’s notepad and then tallying the sections that appear most frequently. For this purpose, one could use the thorough guides made by Scott Cave or recent ones posted on H-Net by William Cohoon and Grant Kleiser. Indeed, this is the method I initially followed in preparation for my dissertation research on the commerce and cultivation of New World dyes in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. My numerous PARES searches indicated that the section of the archive that dwelled on dyes was Contratación (commercial affairs, very broadly understood). Based on these references, I realized my time at the AGI would largely involve examining commercial disputes over dye shipments. To be honest, I was not thrilled by this prospect and thus decided to prioritize a different archival thread that drew me to the history of cochineal some years earlier.

Hailed as one of the largest exports from Colonial Mexico, cochineal is a red dye obtained from parasitic insect females that sap nutrients from its plant host, the prickly pear cactus or nopal. Archival materials about this dye are quite scattered but there are a few illustrated documents (Fig. 3) that explain how Indigenous laborers in Central and Southern Mexico aptly managed parasites, plants, and the landscape to produce a highly specialized dye at a large scale. Like other scholars before me, I was interested in this striking visual culture. This led me to pursue a distinct archival journey from the one charted by the results I had collected in PARES.

I. Through the archival weeds

Among historians, the Spanish State archives are notorious for their cumbersome and restricted approach to digitization. Until only recently, researchers were strictly forbidden from taking photos at the AGI and therefore had to request the archivists to digitize sections of the archive, a process that could take many months if not years. Yet, it would be surprising for many to hear that the AGI and other Spanish state archives were pioneers in digitization, launching PARES online fourteen years ago. From then on, researchers and accidental historians like me have been able to use this archive at a scale, speed, and distance unimaginable three decades ago. For better or for worse, virtually every scholar of Colonial Latin America now begins their archival journey with digitized documents from PARES, which account at best for about 10% of their holdings. The AGI has now fully digitized diverse subsections such as Listas de Pasajeros (located in Contratación), Patronato, most of the bound books in the Gobierno Section (see Part 2), and a good portion of illustrations, maps, and material culture contained in Mapas, Planos y Estampas (MP-Estampas).

Drawing of Bison found in documents of AGI - for NEP's Archive Chronicles
Figure 2. “Dibujo de un Bisonte”, MP-Estampas-1, Archivo General de Indias, ca. 1598. This bison, originally described as a “cow from Cíbola” was originally part of the 389 folio digitized file on Juan de Oñate’s exploits in New Mexico (Patronato,22,R.13), shown below.

Screenshot of PARES system for NEP's Archive Chronicles

It is in MP-Estampas where one can find a charming drawing of a bison originally sighted in the Zuni town of Hawikuh. This drawing brings into view something I completely missed when I first read an illustrated report on cochineal production in Yucatán located in this same section. The cropped version of the bison drawing suggests it was taken from a larger document. To fully understand its purpose, it is crucial to refer to its original location in Patronato. In contrast, the seventeenth-century dye production report, featuring an image of a prickly pear, appeared self-contained. I initially only verified that its associated documents in Guatemala’s section were fully digitized. However, many months later, when I took the time to look more carefully at the documents in the original location of the report, I finally asked the most important question about the prickly pear image: Why was a document referring to prickly pears in Yucatán deposited in the papers of Guatemala?

Image of text describing the process of cultivation of the grana or cochineal
17th century drawing of the process of cultivating the grana or cochineal

Figure 3. “Dibujo de la obtención de la grana o cochinilla”, MP-Estampas, 70, Archivo General de Indias, 1620. The illustration of the prickly pear cactus (nopal) is part of a brief report detailing how to cultivate these plants so they could sustain cochineal, an insect parasite that bore one of the most valuable red dyes in the early modern world.

Through this archival discovery I learned that I should not take digitized items from PARES for granted. Our time as researchers at the AGI seems so precious that we tend to prioritize legajos (bundles of documents)that are only available to consult in situ. Yet, it is also important to read in tandem relevant digitized documents for they might lead us to different sections of the archive. This is especially relevant for sections at the AGI that archivists curated long after the documents came to the archive such as MP-Estampas or Patronato. When documents are plucked out of the original trail that brought them to the archive, it is easy to miss what was their original purpose and the creators behind them.

My lack of diligence in reading digitized documents was compensated by my stubbornness to find out more about prickly pears in the Yucatán Peninsula. Since the report was one of the first documents that caught my attention when I first articulated my dissertation project, I was determined to find more about it. Yet, when I looked for traces about prickly pears or dyes in Yucatán, my PARES search results were disappointing. This is not entirely surprising as Yucatán was considered a remotely communicated region during Spanish colonial rule. But my inability to find relevant documents about my inquiry was rooted in the heterogeneous cataloging of the archive, not its remoteness. That is, the level of description of each legajo varies greatly across sections. There are legajos that archivists have thoroughly, or at least decently described, thus allowing for easy identification of relevant documents amidst hundreds of folios. Others, like many legajos from the infamous miscellaneous section of Indiferente General, have just a broad identification label with a range of years, sometimes without any geographic attribution.

Figure 4. Comparison between two legajos with contrasting levels of description: The left one lists correspondence from different viceroys in New Spain and has been fully digitized and organized by year. The right one is only available to consult in situ and covers over two-hundred years of Council and Board reports.

I decided to immerse myself into the world of scantily described legajos and started to look for anything remotely related to Yucatán. To navigate the heterogeneous cataloging of the AGI, I established the main coordinates of my search in terms of geography –any jurisdiction related to colonial Yucatán; people: any colonial bureaucrat related to prickly pears and cochineal; time frame: three decades before or after 1620, the year of the report. I also relied on three strategies: 1) use print catalogs to understand the organization of different archival sections; 2) look for archival clues and references on expert literature; 3) ask for help from the authors or readers of expert literature.

These somewhat obvious strategies allowed me to find numerous fragments scattered across various legajos in the sections of Gobierno and Escribanía. While there were many days when I poured over dozens of pages thinking I had not found a single thread, I came to realize that I needed this time to get acquainted with the archive and the voices spread across its sections. It taught me how to ask the archive better questions and start using PARES not as a fishing net to simply see “what’s out there”, but as a navigational chart. 

II. Labyrinth shortcuts

My weeks-long search for Yucatán’s prickly pears was mostly successful because the AGI has an extraordinary scholarly community that extends beyond its walls at the Cilla del Cabildo building. The famous 11 am coffee break that AGI users take every day certainly captures the enthusiasm and collaborative spirit surrounding the archive. Even if one does not partake in this ritual every day, it is incredibly easy to meet local and international scholars working on a wide array of topics related to the Spanish Empire and the early Americas. I was lucky enough to meet two researchers working on Yucatán that pointed me to key legajos and kept an eye for anything related to my dissertation. Additionally, the in-site archive’s library, the Hispanic American School Library, and the unmatched expertise of local scholars became the best way to learn about other Spanish archives and become acquainted with new historiographies.

Entrance of the Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos in Seville
Figure 5. Entrance of the Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos in Seville. Wikimedia Commons

To venture into the archival weeds of the AGI, more than patience or resourcefulness, one needs time and money. A prolonged stay in Seville is cost- and time-prohibitive for most scholars. Thus, making the most of each archival visit is vital. Over the past decade, the Spanish State Archives have made substantial changes that have increased their accessibility: longer operating hours, self-digitizing initiatives, an online system to book appointments, and the use of WeTransfer to send digitized files. And while their implementation at the AGI has been slow, I cannot stress enough how transformative some of these have been. They allow for better planning and use of time in the reading room. There is still plenty to improve especially on the cataloging front. In the second part of this piece, I will share a few tips that helped me improve my use of PARES and understand better their cataloging and organization.

Now that the AGI has loosened its strict policies about digitization, scholars will not need to spend as much time in Seville as older generations of historians did. Those of us who had the privilege of making a long research stay at the AGI might fear that the increase of short visits and indiscriminate use of cameras will erode the archive’s strong community. I do not know the AGI well enough to predict whether this will happen or not, but I do know that my colleagues’ love for coffee, gossip, and archival adventures is as timeless as the cover design of an AGI legajo. I do not expect to see a shortage of researchers sharing over coffee their grievances and archival finds any time soon.

Diana Heredia-López is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of History at the University of Texas at Austin. Originally trained as a biologist in Mexico, she has specialized in the history of science and colonialism since 2012. Her current research examines dye cultivation and commerce as a framework to investigate early modern Hispanic extractivism, knowledge production, and material culture.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Review of Thanks to Life: A Biography of Violeta Parra, by Ericka Verba (2025)

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Ericka Verba’s book Thanks to Life: A Biography of Violeta Parra is the riveting culmination of a lifetime of dedicated and passionate research about the world-renowned Chilean artist Violeta Parra. Verba immerses readers into the rowdy Chilean peñas, elite Communist gatherings, smoke-filled Parisian nightclubs, and desolate circus tents to narrate decades of Chilean musical history through Parra’s life. Thanks to Life, a long-anticipatedbook for historians of Chilean music, reveals the tumultuous realities of Chilean women musicians through Violeta’s work and life.

Violeta Parra is considered the “mother of Chilean protest music,” who Verba positions as a multidimensional “everything-ist” skilled in songwriting, poetry, ceramics, and a range of visual arts. All but disregarded in Chile during her lifetime, Verba attributes Parra’s obscurity to gendered, racist and classist reasons. Verba frames such social characteristics around authenticity: Parra continually reinvented herself as “the representative of pure and unchanging traditions in the face of [modernity]” (p. 301). While authenticity is a concept that has been discussed almost ad nauseum in Folklore studies and Ethnomusicology, Verba masterfully revives the notion to demonstrate how Violeta manipulated this authenticity for her professional benefit. Parra deployed authenticity interchangeably as the Indigenous, the popular (of the people), the intuitive, or the ordinary, even as audiences and stakeholders stereotyped and at times denigrated her for the same reasons. Verba underscores the intersecting gendered and classist facets of such claims: Parra’s creative abilities, dress, and even her smell, both constructed her as authentic and marginalized her amongst urban audiences.

Yo no tomo la guitarra por conseguir un aplauso: yo canto la diferencia de lo cierto lo falso…
Source: Library of Congress

What I find most exhilarating about Thanks to Life is that Verba displays the complexity of Violeta for who she was, without attempts to either glorify or demonize her. Parra was notorious for her violent outbursts and brash personality; Verba reminds readers that had Violeta lived today, she would have likely been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Rather than attempting to explain Parra’s choices—her bawdy humor, toxic relationship with Gilbert Favre, or penchant for bashing guitars over others’ heads—she instead interrogates the gendered reactions to such behaviors. Readers come away with a vision of Violeta as determined, scrappy, and utterly nonconformist. [1] [2] 

Methodologically, Verba pulls together primary sources from across the Americas and Europe by following the places where Parra travelled throughout her life. Through bringing in resources from unexpected places such as the American Folklife Center and the World Festival of Youth and Students Collection, she positions Parra’s story within broader currents of twentieth century folk movements and the cultural Cold War. While I have to admit that I hoped for oral histories rather than a heavy reliance on secondary sources, Verba selected poignant interpersonal and anecdotal details from the autobiographies of individuals such as Favre and Violeta’s brother, Nicanor, to bring Violeta’s story to life. Verba further incorporates song and poetry lyrics into each chapter to explain Parra’s political positions and supplement biographical information. The translations for such verses are particularly impressive as the poetry is riddled with colloquial phrases and Chilean-specific terminology. Collaborators Nancy Morris and Patricia Vilches did a stunning job translating while retaining meaning.

Thanks to Life is chronologically organized into ten chapters, with patterning reminiscent of the ten-line poet-songs that Parra composed. Chapter 1, “Materials,” explores Violeta’s childhood and adolescence in southern Chile, framed as the years that gave her the “‘materials that ma[d]e up [her] song’” (p. 11). Chapter 2, “Anti-Materials,” and Chapter 3, “Folklorista,” offer significant contributions to Chilean music history scholarship. In “Anti-Materials,” Verba reveals two decades of Parra’s life that current narratives, and Violeta herself, glossed over: her years making ends meet as a young working-class musician in Santiago. Years of gigging in nighttime dives disrupt Parra’s neat narrative of authenticity as a countryside child growing up to play folk music; yet, they explain how Parra gained the resiliency to maneuver within the male-dominated music industry in future years. “Folklorista” demonstrates the impact of her family, and particularly her siblings, on her initial success as a folklorista and her subsequent rise as a forerunner of the folk music revival. Her brother Nicanor was particularly influential in both introducing her to the intellectual and artistic circles of Santiago and inspiring her to begin composing the traditionally masculine poet-songs. Conversely, the breakup of the commercially oriented sister duo Las Hermanas Parra forced Violeta to strike out on her own career, leading her to the folk songs that would initially bring her individual fame.

Chapters 4, 7, and 8 document Parra’s two stints in Europe, first in the 1950s, and a decade later in the 1960s. Once again, Verba weaves Violeta’s personal life, and complex family dynamics, into the broader musical scenes and political landscapes. Of particular importance is the author’s exploration of how Parra rose from performing in working-class dives to exhibiting her artwork at the Louvre: Violeta revised her own narrative to exaggerate her poverty and Indigenous heritage, thereby elevating her authenticity as a folk “everything-ist.” Chapters 5 and 6, sandwiched between Parra’s Europe years, chronicle precisely these years spent back in Chile. Framed around Nicanor calling his sister “volcanic” (p. 121), Verba details the explosion of Violeta’s creative activities as she transitioned from folklorista to a multi-faceted songwriter and artist. The last two chapters, “New Songs” and “Last Songs,” hone in on key components of the final years of Parra’s life: her performances in her childrens’ folk club the Peña de los Parra; the composition of the songs that made her famous, including “Run Run se fue pa’l norte,” “Volver a los diecisiete,” and “Rin del angelito;” the ultimately unsuccessful Carpa de la Reina; and the singer’s deteriorating mental health.

As Verba remarks at the beginning of the book, Thanks to Life is not meant to be read alone, but rather to be accompanied with Parra’s music and images of her artwork. I personally recommend her tapestries (they brought me to tears the first time I saw them); Verba conveniently created a playlist for readers to listen to Parra’s music on her website.

Book cover of Thanks to Life: A Biography of Violeta Parra, by Ericka Verba (2025)

I could not put the book down, even though I knew it would predictably end with Parra’s suicide. Over the pages, I became deeply invested not only in Violeta, but in her children Ángel and Isabel, her husbands and lovers, and the fate of Parra’s Carpa. While I have been a “Violetamaniac”for almost a decade, I learned new information on every page, especially as Verba connected Parra’s compositions to the context in which they were written. I laughed aloud when Verba highlighted Violeta’s humor through the story of a telegraph sent to God; I shared her anger when her first husband refused to support her artistic career. In short, through this book, I feel that I know Violeta Parra more deeply than I thought imaginable.

Hannah is a PhD candidate in ethnomusicology at the University of California, Riverside and Visiting Instructor of Music at Occidental College. She holds an MA in ethnomusicology from UC Riverside and a BA in Music and Spanish from Messiah University. Sponsored by the Fulbright Hays and Fulbright IIE, Hannah’s current research examines the life and work of Chilean folklorist Margot Loyola and her impact on traditional music performance and education.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

The Weak and the Powerful: Omar Torrijos, Panama, and the Non-Aligned Movement in the World (IHS Book Talk)

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Dr. Jonathan Brown, emeritus professor of history at the University of Texas at Austin, followed an unconventional path to academia. Following a master’s degree in history at the University of Arizona, he received a commission in the Army R.O.T.C. program. Brown served as a lieutenant in the Panama Canal Zone from 1968 to 1970. Later promoted to captain, he completed his final tour of duty in Thailand in 1971 before enrolling in the history doctoral program at UT-Austin. His first book, A Socioeconomic History of Argentina (1979), won the Bolton Prize for the best book in English on Latin American history. Over his career, Brown has published six books. Spanning centuries and continents, his scholarship explores labor, nationalism, and revolution among other themes

In October 2024, the Institute for Historical Studies hosted a book talk for Dr. Brown’s latest publication, The Weak and the Powerful: Omar Torrijos, Panama, and the Nonaligned Movement in the World. This most recent work reflects the contours of his career—both within and outside academia. His initial exposure to Panama and General Torrijos began when he was stationed in the Southern Command from 1968 to 1970. However, Dr. Brown would not undertake a study of the canal until nearly five decades later. The impetus was another project. His 2017 book, Cuba’s Revolutionary World, traced the Cuban Revolution’s influence on hemispheric affairs and ultimately renewed his interest in the Canal Zone. Where Cuba’s Revolutionary World de-centers the United States and focuses on Cuban foreign policy, The Weak and the Powerful positions Panama as a critical yet understudied player in regional politics.

Book cover of The Weak and the Powerful: Omar Torrijos, Panama, and the Non-Aligned Movement in the World

The Weak and the Powerful opens with a provocative question: “How does a small country, without resort to war, convince a great power to give back valuable real estate?” This framing shifts the focus away from traditional spheres of influence in Cold War studies. During his talk, Brown shared that he aimed to write about imperialism while focusing on its victims. The Weak and the Powerful largely succeeds in centering Panama, although this history filters through the biography of the nation’s strongman. The United States and its political leaders remain on the periphery of this transnational study. Instead, the book devotes considerable attention to Panama’s relations with the Global South and members of the Non-Aligned Movement. General Torrijos proactively engaged these countries to build solidarity and to unite many “weak” powers against the United States. “He made it difficult for American diplomats to engage with international organizations without living up to their own democratic principles,” concludes Brown.

Picture of Omar Torrijos photographed in the countryside with Panamanian farmers
Omar Torrijos with Panamanian farmers. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Omar Torrijos, who took power through a military coup in 1968, successfully negotiated an end to nearly a century of U.S. occupation of the Canal Zone. Remarkably, he did so not through force but through negotiation. For this accomplishment, Brown argues that “the Panamanian strongman deserves a study of international dimensions” (7). Thus, The Weak and the Powerful devotes considerable attention to Torrijos’ biography. The author traces the dictator’s rise through the Panamanian National Guard, which offered economic and social mobility to many Panamanians. Perhaps surprising to many readers, military service also provided Torrijos with “a greater sense of social inequities in the mountains, plains, and jungles of the nation” (24). The dictator came to see himself as a progressive, championing issues of social justice and offering a reformist domestic agenda.

Black and white picture of General Omar Torrijos and with President Carter.
General Omar Torrijos with President Carter [Panama Treaty]. Source: Library of Congress

Inclusionary policies and social reforms allowed Torrijos to cultivate popular support and to consolidate his power. Brown also maintains that the Torrijos regime made scant use of repression in contrast to other Latin American dictatorships of the era. Ultimately, this leadership style allowed Torrijos to hold power as long as it took to sign the Panama Canal Accords. Illuminating this history, The Weak and the Powerful offers a compelling reexamination of Panama’s role in hemispheric politics. The book highlights Torrijos’ strategic use of international alliances to pressure the United States into granting historic concessions. This achievement came at a time of significant U.S. intervention in Latin America—an irony that reinforces Brown’s larger argument that “no model of international relations can explain [Torrijos’] accomplishments” (269). Ultimately, Dr. Brown’s return to the Panama Canal offers a fresh perspective on treaty negotiations and enriches existing Cold War historiography.

Gabrielle Esparza is a Ph.D. candidate in Latin American history, with a focus on twentieth-century Argentina. Her dissertation examines the evolution of President Raúl Alfonsín’s human rights policies from his candidacy to his presidency in post-dictatorship Argentina. At the University of Texas at Austin, Gabrielle has served as a graduate research assistant at the Texas State Historical Association and as co-coordinator of the Symposium on Gender, History, and Sexuality in 2020-2021. Gabrielle was also Associate Editor and Communications Director of Not Even Past from 2021-2022. Currently, Gabrielle works as a graduate research assistant in the Institute for Historical Studies and as an Editorial Assistant for The Americas: A Quarterly Review of Latin American History.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Review of Indigenous Autocracy: Power, Race, and Resources in Porfirian Tlaxcala, Mexico, by Jaclyn Ann Sumner (2024)

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An Indigenous person in a position of power during the Porfiriato, the period from 1876 to 1910 when General Porfirio Díaz ruled Mexico, seems almost unimaginable. But in Indigenous Autocracy: Power, Race, and Resources in Porfirian Tlaxcala, Jaclyn Sumner tells the captivating story of Próspero Cahuantzi, who governed Tlaxcala for nearly 26 years—longer than any other governor of the period. What makes Cahuantzi’s tenure unique is not only his Indigenous heritage, but the ways in which he skillfully leveraged power in a political climate steeped in racial prejudice and anti-Indigenous policies. While Porfirio Díaz’s regime was persecuting and oppressing Indigenous populations elsewhere, including pursuing brutal campaigns like the attempted extermination of the Yaqui, Cahuantzi defied the odds by wielding executive power in Tlaxcala.

Indigenous Autocracy is not a biography. However, Sumner skillfully uses Cahuantzi’s life and career to explore the complex political practices that supported Díaz’s authoritarian regime, addressing themes like race, ethnicity, liberalism, nation-building, authoritarianism, and environmental control in late 19th and early 20th-century Mexico. Through a regional focus on Tlaxcala, Sumner challenges the common portrayal of a monolithic and omnipotent Porfirian government. She illustrates how Díaz’s authority was far from uniform across Mexico and that his policies were more flexible and negotiable at the local level.

Portrait of Próspero Cahuantzi
Próspero Cahuantzi. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Sumner probes the question of how Cahuantzi maintained his power over such an extended period of time, especially given that some of his policies seemed to conflict with Díaz’s modernization plans. Although his military career and loyalty to Díaz initially solidified his position, it was Cahuantzi’s ability to strategically invoke his Indigenous identity—both personally and on behalf of Tlaxcala—that secured his continued tenure. Cahuantzi came to embody the idealized “civilized Indigenous” figure that the Porfirian regime was willing to support: an individual connected to Mexico’s pre-Hispanic past and yet aligned with the government’s goals of progress, order, and stability. In this way, Sumner argues, Cahuantzi’s carefully crafted image of indigeneity was highly selective, reinforcing anti-Indigenous sentiments against those who did not conform to this model of the “civilized” Indigenous leader. This selective indigeneity was not only politically expedient but also profoundly rhetorical; it was tailored to fit the expectations of an assimilationist state rather than reflecting a deep commitment to Indigenous practices or worldviews.

While Sumner presents Cahuantzi as a compelling figure through which to examine Porfirian policies at the local level, there are moments when she may ascribe too much influence to him. A more detailed exploration of Tlaxcala’s local government structures would have strengthened the analysis by illustrating how other officials or advisors within Cahuantzi’s administration may have influenced governance. Additionally, since indigeneity is a core theme of the book, an expanded investigation into the worldview of Tlaxcala’s Indigenous groups—including the Nahuas and Otomíes—and their usos y costumbres (customs and traditions) would have enriched our understanding of how Cahuantzi’s identity intersected with local Indigenous cultures. Sumner suggests that Cahuantzi’s knowledge of local relationships, resources, and traditions allowed him to implement policies that maintained social stability and content. But a deeper analysis of his Indigenous heritage could have illuminated how it informed his political decisions. Such an absence suggests that Cahuantzi’s indigeneity functioned more as a symbolic or rhetorical construct to advance his career, rather than a driving force behind his governance.

Cabinet meeting of Porfirio Díaz
Cabinet meeting of Porfirio Díaz. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Sumner argues as well that Díaz tolerated Cahuantzi’s leadership in Tlaxcala partly because the state’s modest size and economy posed little threat to the Porfirian modernization project. However, she later notes that in 1910, “Tlaxcala’s contribution was among the most comprehensive, even as compared to larger states” (p. 130). This increase in revenue, attributed in part to Cahuantzi’s efforts, hints at latent economic potential within Tlaxcala that perhaps went underestimated by Díaz’s central administration. Sumner leaves us to consider why Díaz, despite the era’s prevailing Social Darwinist and positivist ideologies, allowed a high-profile Indigenous governor like Cahuantzi to remain in power. This question deepens our understanding of the regime’s racial and social policies, revealing complexities often overlooked.

Book cover for Indigenous Autocracy: Power, Race, and Resources in Porfirian Tlaxcala, Mexico

I cannot emphasize enough what a pleasure it was to read Jaclyn Sumner first monograph. This work is both meticulously researched and artfully written, offering a narrative that is both intellectually rich and eminently accessible. Its thoughtful organization and clear language make it immensely rewarding for scholars but also accessible to readers beyond the academic sphere. Overall, it succeeds in its aims and makes a substantial contribution to the historiography of Mexico, Tlaxcala, and the Porfiriato, as well as scholarship on indigeneity, race, and authoritarianism in Latin America. It sheds valuable light on the complexities of Indigenous identity and political power within Mexico’s modernization project.

Raquel Torua Padilla is a doctoral candidate in the Department of History at the University of Texas at Austin. She holds a B.A. in History from the Universidad de Sonora and is currently a CONTEX Fellow. Her research focuses on the history of Indigenous peoples in the Northwest of Mexico and the U.S. Southwest, with a particular emphasis on the Yaqui people. Her current projects examine Yaqui militias and their diaspora during the 19th and 20th centuries.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Review of Piracy and the Making of the Spanish Pacific World, by Kristie Flannery (2024)

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Kristie Flannery’s groundbreaking first book, Piracy and the Making of the Spanish Pacific World is not only about how Spanish colonial rule worked in the Philippine Islands. Rather, Piracy and the Making of the Spanish Pacific World analyzes how colonialism, forms of capitalism, and religion forged political, economic, and religious alliances across Asia, the Americas, and Europe. This research reveals that colonialism in the Philippines was a process that went beyond the boundaries of the islands. The book shows that globalization and European imperial expansion influenced how ideas and actions traveled through the Spanish Empire in specific places or vast spaces such as the Pacific Ocean.

Flannery invites readers to explore the ways in which societies are structured. The book recovers forgotten stories of Indigenous soldiers and migrants who struggled to restore their identities when they were arbitrarily and constantly changed. Piracy serves as the central theme in the book and functions as the axis from which the real or imaginary fears that threatened the loyalties established between the inhabitants of the Philippines and the Spanish empire in Asia revolve. Piracy works as a driver of alliances between social groups and as an excuse to impose a regime of violence and genocide on an unwanted migrant population. This book examines how violence, piracy, imperial loyalties, and concepts of identity shifted and remained ambivalent, shaped by the actions of people and the fears—both real and imagined—that arose in a globalized imperial world.

Map of Philippines created in 1734
Carta Hydrographica y Chorographica de la Yslas Filipinas MANILA, 1734. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Much of the conceptual support of this book revolves around key notions such as loyalty, identity, and violence. These categories of analysis are fundamental to understanding how subjects were classified in the colonial system using terms that were incorporated so deeply that they survived even the disappearance of the Spanish empire. In other words, this conceptual framework sheds light on why it is relevant to understand the motivations that compelled people to exercise acts of discrimination and violence against Muslim and Filipino subjects. Some policies of discrimination witnessed and exercised during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries could be interpreted as political strategies to exploit and segregate people from China, creating a system of social control that was both tangible and intangible– or in the words of the author, both real and imaginary.

The methodological challenge of this book is contained in the possibility of archival research also of a global order. Kristie Flannery draws from Asian, Latin American, and Spanish archives in cities such as Manila, Seville, Mexico, and London among others, and integrates an extensive multilingual corpus of documents. By intersecting sources and exploring seemingly disconnected materials, the methodology expands into a spatial and scalar approach. This approach enables an ambitious exploration of riverine, maritime, and land connections, as well as the barriers between them. Each chapter begins with the departure or arrival of a ship that also represents a way of venturing into history in a fluid way to read a historical moment where real and imaginary piracy contributed to the Spanish colonial order in the Philippines.

Depiction of the Manila Gallon arriving to the Ladrones Island. 7 smaller ships around it.
Reception of the Manila Galleon by the Chamorro in the Ladrones Islands, ca. 1590.
Source: Wikimedia Commons

The book is composed of five chapters, an introduction, and an epilogue. Chapter 1, set in the eighteenth century, explores how the ideas of Muslims and Islam from the Mediterranean shaped Spanish strategies in the Americas and the Philippines, influencing defense strategies against Moorish piracy and later creating alliances between various actors according to their notions of religion and loyalty. This is a fascinating chapter in which identity and loyalty are central to understanding that the Spanish empire did not always reach all corners in the same ways.

Chapter 2 explores how the fluctuating threats of Mora piracy impacted the transient Chinese population, who settled far beyond the shores of Manila. The threats of pirate fleets reveal how the massacres of the Chinese population in 1603, 1639, and 1662 in the Philippines created an environment where religion was the engine of waves of violence and that ended up pushing alliances of the Sangleyes (referring to the Chinese migrants in the Philippines) in Manila as faithful vassals.

Chapters 3 and 4 delve into the invasions of Manila during the eighteenth century, showing how indigenous Filipinos challenged loyalties to face the arrival of the British by showing strong local opposition. And then Flannery analyzes how Spanish rule was restored by confronting the British invasions and also the local insurgents. Finally, Chapter 5 shows how migrants born in China after the war were collectively expelled from Manila and the forms of resistance these migrants used to confront an expulsion.

Book cover

In general terms, I identify several substantial contributions of this research to the study of imperial colonial historiography and the Spanish Pacific. First, the analysis of the history of piracy in the Spanish Pacific offers an understanding of how Spanish forms of government and colonial authority were adaptable to different contexts. In other words, there is not a single, uniform way of understanding the Spanish empire in the Americas and in the Philippines. Instead, there are intermediate positions, in this case, mediated by alliances, which must also be considered in the historiography. These individuals played active roles in shaping history and provide new perspectives for reinterpreting traditional historical narratives.

Second, forms of violence during this period continue to be fundamental elements in understanding how notions of identity and understanding of the “other” as alien to one’s own materialized. In addition, they were motivated by religious and political discourses that were also transoceanic. That is, ideas and actions also traveled with people. Third, this research carefully highlights how the Spanish empire classified colonial subjects based on race, social status, and religion and created policies of exclusion that were used to subvert an order according to real or imagined motivations that people had. This research shows that forms of social differentiation also can be inherited. Perhaps, this is why it is so important for Flannery to show how colonial and early modern ideas and practices persist and influence the ways we see each other and our world today. This is a carefully structured book with a geographical richness to enjoy. A book that becomes part of the field of colonial studies with a fascinating vision of a space sometimes forgotten by historiography: the Pacific.

Cindia Arango López. Historian, Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Medellín. Mg. in Geography, Universidad de los Andes, Bogotá. Specialist in Environment and Geoinformatics: SIG, Universidad de Antioquia. Currently, PhD student in Latin American Studies at the University of Texas at Austin, TX-USA. She has been a professor of the undergraduate program in Territorial Development at Universidad de Antioquia, Oriente campus, Colombia. Currently, she is developing her candidacy for her doctoral research on the navigators bogas of the Magdalena River in the 18th century in Colombia.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

NEP’s Archive Chronicles: Procesados e interrogados. Encontrando las voces de los Yaqui en los archivos judiciales de Sonora

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NEP’S Archive Chronicles explora el papel que desempeñan los archivos en la investigación histórica, ofreciendo una visión del proceso de realización del trabajo archivístico y de investigación. Cada entrega ofrecerá una perspectiva única de los tesoros y retos que los investigadores encuentran en los archivos de todo el mundo. NEP’s Archive Chronicles pretende ser tanto una guía práctica como un espacio de reflexión, en el que se expongan las experiencias de los colaboradores con la investigación archivística. En esta pieza, Raquel Torúa Padilla escribe de su experiencia encontrando las voces de los Yaqui a través de los archivos judiciales de Sonora.

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En mi búsqueda por entender la historia de los pueblos indígenas de Sonora, me he enfrentado a constantes desafíos para acceder a fuentes que reflejen auténticamente sus experiencias y perspectivas. Los registros históricos escritos por las poblaciones indígenas en el noroeste de México son escasos y difíciles de encontrar, particularmente aquellos anteriores al siglo XX. Para ese periodo, la mayoría de los individuos indígenas eran analfabetas, no hablaban el idioma de los colonizadores y carecían de recursos y medios para documentar sus pensamientos y sentimientos. Como resultado, nuestra comprensión de la historia indígena depende en gran medida de relatos escritos por personajes no indígenas, como misioneros, exploradores, figuras políticas o militares. Aunque en ocasiones podemos tropezar con valiosos documentos escritos por los propios nativos, como cartas de personas letradas, estos hallazgos tienden a ser excepcionalmente raros. 

Me he interesado particularmente en la historia del pueblo Yoeme, mayormente conocido como Yaqui. Los yaquis conforman uno de los grupos indígenas más numerosos de lo que ahora se conoce como el estado de Sonora, en el noroeste de México. A lo largo de los siglos, han tenido que enfrentarse a diferentes autoridades y gobiernos que han buscado despojarlos de sus tierras, autonomía e identidad. A pesar de los esfuerzos por exterminarlos durante el Porfiriato (1876 – 1911), los yaquis persisten y resisten hasta el día de hoy.

Loreto Villa, Juan Maldonado, Hilario Amarillas, interprete yaqui. Ortiz, Sonora. Fuente: Memórica

Como una solución al problema sobre las fuentes históricas, recientemente he recurrido a los archivos judiciales como una valiosa fuente alternativa para acceder a los testimonios indígenas. Hermosillo, la capital del estado de Sonora en el noroeste de México, alberga dos archivos públicos que contienen documentos jurídicos: el Archivo General del Poder Judicial del Estado de Sonora y el Archivo de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica de la Suprema Corte de Justicia. Ambos archivos dividen sus colecciones en dos categorías: el archivo histórico, que contiene documentos creados antes de 1950, y el archivo de concentración, que incluye documentos producidos después de 1950.[1] Ambos fueron creados en el siglo XIX y se mantienen y financian hoy en día a través de fondos asignados por el gobierno estatal y el gobierno federal, respectivamente. 

En los últimos años, me he dedicado a buscar en archivos históricos las voces del pueblo yaqui, especialmente del período conocido como la Guerra secular del Yaqui. Esta violenta etapa inició en 1824 bajo el liderazgo de Juan Banderas, un líder yaqui que se alzó contra el gobierno mexicano para defender su autonomía. El conflicto se agravó tras los proyectos liberales que buscaban privatizar las tierras comunales indígenas y, sobre todo, durante el Porfiriato, cuando se convirtió en una guerra de exterminio. Aunque apenas sobrevivieron a esos años, los yaquis continuaron su rebelión contra el gobierno hasta la década de 1930, cuando finalmente se rindieron tras ser ferozmente debilitados por las autoridades revolucionarias.

Aunque el contenido de ambos repositorios comparte similitudes, también hay diferencias notables emanadas de sus diferentes funciones y objetivos. Estas variaciones se manifiestan no solo en su contenido, sino también en la preservación, catalogación y facilidad de acceso a los documentos históricos. En este artículo, presento brevemente la historia de estos archivos y comparto mi experiencia de hacer investigación en ellos, y los resultados que podemos obtener.

Grupo de indios yaqui. Ortiz, Sonora. Fuente: Memórica

Pero antes de entrar a los archivos, es necesario que explique cómo funciona el sistema judicial en México y cómo el expediente de un caso particular puede terminar en un archivo u otro. Desde la Constitución de 1824 y la creación de los Códigos Penales, los delitos en México se han clasificado como de fuero común o de fuero federal. Los casos de derecho común se procesan en los tribunales locales o estatales, mientras que los delitos de derecho federal van a los juzgados de distrito. Si una persona acusada (por cualquier tipo de delito) siente que ha sido sentenciada de manera injusta, tiene dos opciones a su disposición. Primero, pueden presentar una apelación para una revisión de la sentencia en una segunda instancia. Si esto no tiene éxito, pueden buscar ampararse ante la ley, lo cual se lleva a cabo en tribunales colegiados o, si es necesario, en la Suprema Corte de Justicia de la Nación.[2] Los delitos de fuero común son aquellos que afectan directamente a las personas, como el abigeato, el estupro, el robo, o infligir lesiones. Los expedientes de esos delitos (y de sus apelaciones, si se promovieron) se pueden encontrar en el Archivo General del Poder Judicial del Estado de Sonora (AGPJ). Los delitos de fuero federal, por otro lado, se definen como aquellos “que afectan el bienestar, la economía, el patrimonio y la seguridad de la nación”, como la sedición, el contrabando o delitos de inmigración.[3] La documentación relacionada con los delitos federales, así como cualquier proceso de amparo, se puede encontrar en el Archivo de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica de la Suprema Corte de Justicia (ACCJ). 

Columna de la antigua penitenciaría estatal.
Antigua penitenciaría estatal. Edificio construido en su mayor parte por yaquis, que también serían encarcelados allí. Fotos tomadas por la autora.
Armazón y escalera de la antigua penitenciaría estatal.
Detalle de la Penitenciaría Estatal.
Fotos tomadas por la autora


El archivo del Poder Judicial


El AGPJ, como todos los archivos, tiene su propia historia. Desde 1833, cuando el Estado de Occidente se dividió en Sonora y Sinaloa y se estableció la primera Constitución local en el estado, el decreto número 13 garantizó la permanencia de los Poderes Supremos, incluido el Supremo Tribunal de Justicia, en Hermosillo, junto con sus respectivos archivos. Más de un siglo después, en 1957, un nuevo decreto estableció un archivo especializado bajo la jurisdicción del Tribunal Supremo de Justicia para organizar y salvaguardar la documentación exclusiva del Poder Judicial del estado. La ley más reciente, de 1996, designó al AGPJ como un órgano auxiliar del Supremo Tribunal de Justicia, con el objetivo de profesionalizar y agilizar las operaciones del poder judicial.[4] Sin embargo los esfuerzos para identificar, catalogar y organizar la documentación no se han completado por cuestiones administrativas y de recursos.

Durante muchos años, la documentación de este archivo se mantuvo resguardada en el Archivo General del Estado de Sonora (AGHES), en la calle Garmendia, en el Centro Histórico de Hermosillo. Desde el año 2000, el archivo se trasladó a un nuevo edificio justo al lado de la Prisión de Hermosillo, en el Blvd. de los Ganaderos. El interior del archivo es todo lo que podrías esperar de un edificio burocrático, y aún peor, de uno judicial. La falta de ventanas, el espacio reducido y la decoración minimalista y utilitaria de la sala de consulta te invitan a ponerte en el lugar de las personas encarceladas cuyos expedientes encuentras frente a ti. Afortunadamente, puedes encontrar brillo y calidez en los archivistas, historiadores, y empleados del AGPJ.

Indios yaquis, alistados en el ejército mexicano, transportados en vagones de carga
México – Sonora, indios yaquis, alistados en el ejército mexicano, transportados en vagones de carga. Fuente: Library of Congress

Para tener éxito en la consulta de este archivo, es esencial establecer buenas relaciones con los archivistas, pues la consulta de la documentación presenta un desafío importante: no hay un catálogo ni una guía de referencia. Así que, o llegas al archivo ya con las referencias anotadas que viste citadas en el trabajo de alguien más (y a veces, incluso en ese caso, han sido modificadas), o es tu día de suerte y lo que buscas ya ha sido identificado por los archivistas. Dicho esto, debo reconocer los esfuerzos recientes del Poder Judicial del estado de Sonora por contratar historiadores y archivistas para trabajar en la preservación y catalogación de los 3036 legajos.

Yo llegué con una lista de referencias de los documentos que quería consultar, porque un amigo mío había estado ya consultando ahí y me guió hacía un expediente interesante. Después de llenar un formulario especificando la referencia, me solicitaron una identificación con foto y a continuación fueron a buscar los documentos. Me pidieron que usara guantes de látex, una mascarilla y que manejara los documentos con cuidado. Desafortunadamente, después de horas de pasar una página tras otra, no pude encontrar el caso que estaba buscando. Pero como siempre ocurre con el trabajo de archivo, encontré muchos otros documentos interesantes y relevantes para mi tema de investigación.

Archivo judicial federal de Sonora

Título de Casa de la Cultura Jurídica del Tribunal Supremo de Justicia
Casa de la Cultura Jurídica del Tribunal Supremo de Justicia. Fotografía de la autora.

Visitar la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica es una experiencia diferente. El edificio del archivo, antes una vivienda, fue construido en 1945 y está ubicado en la colonia Casa Blanca en Hermosillo, frente al icónico Parque Madero. En 1998, la Suprema Corte de Justicia adquirió la propiedad para utilizarla como la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en Hermosillo, que es mucho más que solo un archivo. Nombrada en honor al “Ministro José María Ortiz Tirado,” esta Casa es una de las 36 en todo el país que sirve como un espacio público para “promover la cultura jurídica, favorecer el acceso a la justicia y el fortalecimiento del Estado de Derecho.”[5]

Se requiere que los visitantes firmen una carta comprometiéndose al uso responsable de los materiales documentales y a compartir cualquier publicación con el Archivo. Para solicitar archivos específicos, los visitantes deben proporcionar detalles como el fondo (“Amparo” o “Penal”), el año, la referencia numérica, y los nombres de las personas procesadas. Curiosamente, a pesar de ser necesario presentar esta información para la consulta, el archivo no tiene un catálogo propio. 

Para la colección Amparo, tuve que visitar primero la biblioteca de la División de Ciencias Sociales de la Universidad de Sonora para revisar dos catálogos. Estos fueron producidos por Hans Ildefonso Leyva Meneses (que cubrió los años de 1900-1917) y Mayel Barboza Enciso Ulloa (de 1918-1928) como parte de los requisitos para obtener su título de licenciatura.[6] Afortunadamente, un catálogo digital completo de la colección Penal, aunque escrito de forma anónima, ha estado circulando entre los historiadores locales durante años (¡un agradecimiento al autor!). 

La sala de consulta es completamente distinta a la del archvio estatal. Está bien equipada, es espaciosa y cómoda, y ofrece a los investigadores una vista a un jardín con árboles y cactus, así como a una hermosa familia de felina (entendible, pueso que las instituciones federales suelen tener más recursos). En este archivo también se requiere usar guantes de látex y una mascarilla. Desafortunadamente, debido a las medidas de protección de identidad pues los fallecidos también tienen derecho a la privacidad, no se permite fotografiar los documentos. Como resultado, una consulta exhaustiva puede llevar tiempo y esfuerzo, pero vale la pena.

Gatos en el archivo rodeados de plantas.
Fotos tomadas por la autora
Gatos en el archivo rodeados de plantas.
Fotos tomadas por la autora

Los documentos y las voces que podemos encontrar


Respecto a los documentos, existen parecidos en cuanto a formato, secuencia, propósito y contenido. La extensión de cada expediente dependerá de la gravedad del delito, el número de personas involucradas, la complejidad de la investigación y el volumen de pruebas. El vocabulario y la estructura de los documentos de finales del siglo diecinueve son rígidos y formales, y muestran la ideología positivista de la época. La estructura del documento típicamente consiste en tres partes principales: descripción del crimen y de los involucrados, testimonios y pruebas, y la sentencia o veredicto. Aunque analizar todo el caso puede arrojar luz sobre las sutilezas del sistema judicial, generalmente suelo concentrarme en analizar las declaraciones y relatos, porque es aquí donde comienzas a encontrar las voces de los indígenas. Afortunadamente, debido a la burocracia del sistema judicial, los documentos incluyen la información biográfica de los involucrados, como nombre, edad, estado civil, ocupación y lugar de nacimiento y residencia, seguida de descripciones físicas de los acusados. Además de lo anterior, los documentos también suelen indicar si alguno de los involucrados era una persona indígena. Sin embargo, las autoridades no solían ser explícitos en cuanto al grupo étnico. Es decir, solo sabemos que la persona era indígena.

Para determinar si el individuo en cuestión pertenecia a la etnia yaqui, los indicadores más importante suelen ser el nombre y apellido—como Bacasegua, Buitimea o Matus, apellidos comunes dentro de la etnia. Además de esto, la ubicación de los eventos puede ser un indicador importante, particularmente si se mencionan locaciones dentro o cerca al territorio yaqui, como Guaymas, Vicam o Potam. Si bien este método es efectivo, es importante señalar algunos posibles problemas. En primer lugar, es fácil confundir erróneamente a los yaquis y a los mayos (otro grupo indígena de Sonora) debido a sus similitudes culturales y lingüísticas. Asimismo, a lo largo del tiempo, los yaquis han mostrado una movilidad significativa por todo el estado e incluso más allá de las fronteras políticas, por lo que no era raro encontrarlos desde Álamos hasta Cananea.

Mapa de Sonora - Sinaloa.
Lizars Mexico & Guatimala 1831 UTA (Detail Sonora Sinaloa). Fuente: Wikimedia Commons

Aunque los expedientes judiciales son una importante fuente histórica para el estudio de los pueblos indígenas, es importante aclarar que sus prespectivas y cosmovisiones no están intactas en el archivo. Para esto, es crucial entender cómo se recogieron sus testimonios durante el proceso. Por lo general, en los procedimientos regulares, respondían a preguntas específicas hechas por las autoridades, en lugar de poder testificar de manera espontánea y libre. Por otro lado, si el individuo o individuos buscaban promover un amparo, se presentaba su testimonio por escrito ante la Suprema Corte. También es importante enfatizar que las declaraciones en los documentos de procedimiento civil o penal no son transcripciones literales. En cambio, fueron transcritas por los escribanos en un formato abreviado y pulido a través de una narración indirecta.

En este sentido, podríamos pensar que los expedientes de amparo serían un testimonio menos manipulado, ya que eran los mismos afectados quienes presentaban el testimonio. Sin embargo, considerando el contexto histórico y los casos de amparo que he consultado, los yaquis que promovían el amparo rara vez estaban alfabetizados. En muchas ocasiones, otras partes interesadas asistieron en el caso, a menudo con intereses personales en juego. Por lo tanto, además de los testimonios judiciales orales y escritos, se pueden encontrar esporádicamente otros tipos de evidencia, como cartas, recibos, contratos e incluso evidencia material. Pero si lo que tenemos a nuestra disposición es un testimonio de los indígenas filtrado y manipulado por terceros ¿cómo podemos encontrar sus voces y cosmovisiones? Tener una comprensión profunda del contexto histórico y de cómo se llevó a cabo el proceso judicial sugiere el mejor punto de partida.

Analizar cuidadosamente las declaraciones, contrastarlas y compararlas con otras fuentes (tanto primarias como secundarias) nos permite identificar posibles sesgos, malentendidos, distorsiones o supresiones. Interpretar las fuentes a partir de enfoque indígena también puede ayudarnos a obtener información sobre el significado, el vocabulario, las sutilezas, las implicaciones e incluso los silencios de los testimonios. Con un análisis exhaustivo, los documentos judiciales pueden ofrecernos un vistazo, y a veces incluso más, de las perspectivas, valores y cosmovisiones de los yaquis. Estos archivos son una ventana para observar cómo los yaquis navegaron e interactuaron con el sistema legal mexicano en un momento en que el gobierno los perseguía y buscaba exterminarlos, y cómo fueron representados o mal representados en los procesos judiciales.

Los documentos judiciales muestran cómo los yaquis fueron blanco no solo de las depredaciones del gobierno, sino también de la población sonorense, y cómo también fueron perpetradores de crímenes de fuero común y federal durante el periodo de guerra. Estos expedientes proporcionan detalles y testimonios sobre revueltas, “actividades sediciosas” y la desobediencia en general al gobierno, mientras nos ofrecen también un vistazo a sus vidas cotidianas y las distintas maneras de resistir a la guerra.

Las colecciones del Archivo del Poder Judicial del estado de Sonora y del Archivo de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica ofrecen valiosas perspectivas sobre la historia del pueblo yaqui en el siglo XIX y principios del siglo XX. Espero que mi experiencia, enfoque y metodología puedan ser un modelo para aquellos interesados en profundizar en documentos legales en otras partes de México, ya que cada entidad federal tiene sus propias sucursales de estos archivos. A pesar de los desafíos que cada uno de ellos presenta, estos arcervos son una fuente rica y a menudo infrautilizada de información para los historiadores que investigan no solo sobre asuntos legales, sino también sobre la historia más amplia de Sonora y sus poblaciones indígena y no indígena.  

Quiero expresar un agradecimiento especial a todos los archivistas del Archivo del Poder Judicial del Estado de Sonora, en particular a Bennya Román Flores, cuya generosidad y dedicación han sido fundamentales para la realización de este trabajo. También agradezco a los colaboradores de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en Hermosillo, en especial a Adrián Pérez, por su paciencia y constante apoyo mientras consultaba múltiples cajas de documentos.

Raquel Torua Padilla es doctoranda en el Departamento de Historia de la Universidad de Texas en Austin. Es licenciada en Historia por la Universidad de Sonora y actualmente es becaria de CONTEX. Su investigación se centra en la historia de los pueblos indígenas en el noroeste de México y el suroeste de EE.UU., con especial énfasis en el pueblo yaqui. Sus proyectos actuales examinan las milicias yaquis y su diáspora durante los siglos XIX y XX.

Los puntos de vista y opiniones expresados en este artículo o vídeo son los de su(s) autor(es) o presentador(es) y no reflejan necesariamente la política o los puntos de vista de los editores de Not Even Past, el Departamento de Historia de la Universidad de Texas, la Universidad de Texas en Austin o la Junta de Regentes del Sistema de la Universidad de Texas. Not Even Past es una revista de historia pública en línea y no una revista académica revisada por pares. Aunque nos esforzamos por garantizar que la información de los artículos procede de fuentes fidedignas, Not Even Past no se hace responsable de errores u omisiones.

[1] Los procedimientos para consultar el archivo de concentración son distintos. En el presente, sólo me dedicaré a explicar lo referente al archivo histórico.

[2] García Ramírez, Sergio. 1998. Panorama del derecho penal mexicano. Derecho penal. México: UNAM, McGraw-Hill.

[3] Pérez Moreno Colmenero, Silvia. 2001. Valores para la democracia. Delitos e infracciones administrativas. México: Instituto Nacional para la Educación de los Adultos. 09/13/2024 http://www.oas.org/udse/cd_educacion/cd/Materiales_conevyt/VPLD/delitos.PDF

[4] “Archivo General del Poder Judicial del Estado”. 09/13/2024: https://www.stjsonora.gob.mx/ArchivoPJE/#:~:text=Dentro%20de%20nuestros%20archivos%20se,Estado%20de%20Sonora%20y%20Sinaloa.

[5] “Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en Hermosillo. Ministro José María Ortiz Tirado”. 09/13/2024: https://www.sitios.scjn.gob.mx/casascultura/casas-cultura-juridica/hermosillo-sonora

[6] Leyva Meneses, Hans Ildefonso. 2004. Catálogo para las fuentes documentales de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en el estado de Sonora, serie juicios de amparo, 1900-1917. Tesis de licenciatura. Hermosillo: Universidad de Sonora. And Barboza Enciso Ulloa, Mayel. 2004.  Catálogo del archivo de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en el Estado de Sonora del Poder Judicial de la Federación, sección juzgado quinto de distrito del quinto circuito, serie juicios de amparo, 1918-1928. Tesis de licenciatura. Hermosillo: Universidad de Sonora

NEP’s Archive Chronicles: Prosecuted and interrogated. Finding the voices of the Yaqui in the judicial archives of Sonora

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NEP’S Archive Chronicles explores the role archives play in historical research, offering insight into the process of conducting archival work and research. Each installment will offer a unique perspective on the treasures and challenges researchers encounter in archives around the world. NEP’s Archive Chronicles is intended to be both a practical guide and a space for reflection, showcasing contributors’ experiences with archival research. This installment explores the complexities of finding the voices of the Yaqui people in the archives of Sonora.

Nota: Haz click aquí para acceder a la versión en español.
Note: Click here to access Spanish version.

In my scholarly quest to understand the history of Indigenous peoples, I have confronted persistent challenges in accessing sources that authentically reflect their experiences and perspectives. These sources are often rare, obscure, and challenging to interpret. The historical records written and left by the Indigenous populations in northwestern Mexico are scant, particularly those predating the twentieth-century. Most Indigenous individuals were not literate, lacked knowledge of the colonizers’ language, and had limited means to document their thoughts and feelings. As a result, our understanding of Indigenous history relies heavily on accounts written by outsiders such as missionaries, explorers, political figures, and military personnel. While we may occasionally stumble upon valuable firsthand documents, such as letters from literate individuals, these discoveries are exceptionally rare.

I have been particularly interested in the history of the Yoemem or Yaquis. They are one of the largest Indigenous groups in what is now known as the state of Sonora, in northwest Mexico. Over the past centuries, they have had to confront different governments that have tried to dispossess them of their lands, autonomy, and identity. Despite constant efforts to subdue them and even exterminate them, they persist and resist to this day.  

Yaqui men: Loreto Villa, Juan Maldonado, Hilario Amarillas, interprete yaqui.
Loreto Villa, Juan Maldonado, Hilario Amarillas, interprete yaqui. Ortiz, Sonora. Fuente: Memórica

To address the challenge of finding their voices in the primary documents, recently I have turned to judicial archives as a valuable alternative source for accessing Indigenous testimonies. Hermosillo, the capital city of Sonora in northwest Mexico, is home to two public archives that house juridical documents: the General Archive of the Judicial Branch of the State of Sonora (Archivo General del Poder Judicial del Estado de Sonora) and the Archive of the House of Legal Culture of the Supreme Court of Justice (Archivo de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica). Both archives divide their collections into two categories: the historical, which contains documents created prior to 1950, and the concentration collection, which includes documents produced after 1950.[1] The archives were created in the nineteenth-century and are maintained and funded today through funds allocated by the state government, and the federal government, respectively.

Over the past few years, I have extensively researched both historical archives in pursuit of the voices of the Yaqui people, especially from the Yaqui War period. This violent era started in 1824 under the leadership of Juan Banderas, a Yaqui chief who upraised against the Mexican government to defend their autonomy. The conflict only worsened after the Liberal projects that sought to privatize indigenous communal lands and, especially, during the Porfiriato period, when it turned into an extermination war. Although they barely survived those years, the Yaquis continued revolting against the government until the 1930s when they finally surrendered after being ferociously attacked by the revolutionary authorities.

While the content of both repositories shares similarities, there are also notable differences arising from different duties and objectives, both historical and current day. These variances manifest not only in their content but also in the preservation, cataloging, and accessibility of the historical documents. In this article, I introduce the history of these archives, the experience of researching there, and what we can discover.

Group of Yaqui men
Grupo de indios yaqui. Ortiz, Sonora. Fuente: Memórica

Before I do that, let me briefly explain how the judicial system works in Mexico and how a case’s file might end up in one archive or the other, Since the 1824 Constitution and the creation of Penal Codes,[2] crimes in Mexico have been classified as common law (fuero común) or federal law (fuero federal). Common law cases are processed in state courts, while federal law crimes go to district courts (juzgados de distrito). If an accused individual (of either common or federal law crimes) feels they were unfairly sentenced, they have two options at their disposal. First, they can file an appeal for a second instance review. If this is unsuccessful, they can seek recourse through the “amparo” or legal protection process, which is carried out in collegiate courts or, if necessary, in the Supreme Court of Justice of the Nation (Suprema Corte de Justicia de la Nación).[3]

Common law crimes are those that directly affect individuals, such as cattle rustling, rape, robbery, or inflicting injuries. The files of those crimes (and of their appeals, if promoted) can be found at the General Archive of the Judicial Branch of the State of Sonora (AGPJ). Federal law crimes, on the other hand, defined as those “that affect the well-being, economy, heritage, and security of the nation”, such as sedition, smuggling, or immigration violations.[4] Documentation related to federal law crimes, as well as any amparo processes, canbe found at the Archive of the House of Legal Culture of the Supreme Court of Justice (ACCJ).

Column of former state penitentiary.
Former state penitentiary. Building built mostly by Yaquis, who would also be imprisoned there. Pictures taken by author.
Frame and staircase of former state penitentiary.
Detail of State Penitentiary.
Pictures taken by author.

The state’s judicial archive

The AGPJ, like all archives, has its own history. Since 1833, when the Mexican State of Occidente (Estado de Occidente) split into Sonora and Sinaloa and the first local Constitution was established in the state, decree number 13 ensured the permanence of the Supreme Powers, including the Supreme Tribunal of Justice, in Hermosillo, along with their respective archives. Over a century later, in 1957, a new decree established a dedicated archive under the jurisdiction of the Supreme Tribunal of Justice to organize and safeguard documentation exclusive to the Judicial Branch of the state. The most recent law affecting this archive, dated 1996, designated the AGPJ as an auxiliary body of the Supreme Tribunal of Justice, aiming to professionalize and streamline the judicial branch’s operations.[5] However, because of its new nature and likely limited resources, efforts to identify, catalog, and organize the documentation have not been completed.

For many years, the documentation of this archive was kept in the General Archive of the State of Sonora (AGHES), on Garmendia Street in the Historic Center of Hermosillo. However, since 2000, the archive relocated to a new building right next to the Hermosillo Prison, on Blvd. de los Ganaderos. The interior of the archive is everything you would expect from a bureaucratic building, and even worse, a judicial one. The lack of windows, the small space, and the minimalist and utilitarian decoration of the consultation room invite you to put yourself in the shoes of the imprisoned individuals whose files you find in front of you. Fortunately, you can find brightness and warmth in the archivists and employees of the AGPJ.

Yaqui Indians, enlisted in the Mexican Army, being transported by box cars.
Mexico – Sonora, Yaqui Indians, enlisted in the Mexican Army, being transported by box cars. Source: Library of Congress

To consult this archive, it is essential to establish good relations with the archivists since consulting the documentation presents a unique challenge as there is no catalog or reference guide. So, you either already know the references to the files you want to consult because you saw them cited in someone else’s work (and sometimes even then, they have been changed), or it is your lucky day and what you are looking for has already been identified by the archivists. This said, I must recognize recent efforts by Sonora’s Judiciary Branch to hire historians and archivists to work on the preservation and cataloging of the 3036 files (legajos).

I actually knew (or thought I knew) the references to the files I wanted to consult because a friend of mine had been to the archive before and directed me to a very interesting case. After filling out a form specifying the reference, the archivists asked me for a photo ID and went to get the files for me. They asked me to wear latex gloves, a face mask, and to handle the documents carefully. Unfortunately, after hours of turning one page after another, I was not able to locate case I was looking for. But as is always the case with archival work, I found many other interesting and pertaining documents.

Sonora’s federal judicial archive

House of Legal Culture of the Supreme Court of Justice banner
House of Legal Culture of the Supreme Court of Justice. Picture by author.

Visiting the House of Legal Culture of the Supreme Court of Justice is a different experience. The archive is housed in a building constructed in 1945 (it was a literal house before), located in the Razo neighborhood in Hermosillo, across from the iconic Madero Park. In 1998, the Supreme Court acquired the property to establish the House of Legal Culture in Hermosillo which is much more than just an archive. Named after “Minister José María Ortiz Tirado,” this House is one of 36 across the country that serves as a public venue “to promote legal culture, facilitate access to justice, and reinforce the Rule of Law (Estado de Derecho).”[6]

Visitors are required to sign a letter pledging responsible use of the documentary materials and a commitment to share any publications with the Archive. To request specific files, visitors must provide details such as the collection (“Amparo” or “Penal”), the year, file number, and the names of the processed individuals. But –strikingly—they ask for all of these reference details when they do not have a catalog of their own.

For the Amparo collection, I had to visit the library at the University of Sonora to check out their catalogs for the archive. They were produced by Hans Ildefonso Leyva Meneses (covering 1900-1917) and Mayel Barboza Enciso Ulloa (1918-1928) as part of their bachelor’s degree requirements.[7] Fortunately, a complete digital catalog for the Penal collection, although authored anonymously, has been in circulation among local historians for years now (shout out to the unknown author!).

The consultation room is nothing like the aforementioned archive. It is well-equipped, spacious, and comfortable, and offers the researchers a view of the garden trees and cacti, as well as a beautiful feline family (federal institutions tend to have bigger budgets). Here, too, you are required to wear latex gloves and a face mask. And, unfortunately, due to identity protection measures (the dead have a right to privacy too), photographing the documents is not allowed in this archive. As a result, thorough consultation can be time-consuming, but worth it.

Cats in the archive surrounded by plants.
Cats in the archive surrounded by plants.

The documents and the “voices” we can find.

Due to the similar nature of the documents found in these two archives, they exhibit clear similarities in format, sequence, purpose, and content. The length of the file will depend on the severity of the crime, the number of individuals involved, the complexity of the investigation, and the volume of evidence. The vocabulary and structure of the documents are rigid, and formal, and showcase the positivist ideology of the time.

The structure of the document typically consists of three main parts: a description of the crime and those involved; testimonies and evidence; and the sentence or verdict.[1] Although analyzing the whole case can shed light on the nuances of the judicial system, I am usually drawn to the depositions and accounts, because it is here where you begin to find the voices of the indigenous peoples. Moreover, the bureaucracy of judicial cases presents us with the biographical information of those involved such as name, age, marital status, occupation, and place of birth and residence, followed by physical descriptions of the accused. The document also indicates if any of the persons involved were indigenous (indígena). However, specifics about their ethnic group are rare

To determine if the individual in question was Yaqui, key indicators include their name and surname—such as Bacasegua, Buitimea, or Matus, which are traditionally Yaqui. Additionally, the location of events, particularly in or near Yaqui territories like Vicam, Torim, or Guaymas, can provide further confirmation. While this method is effective, it is important to note some potential pitfalls. Firstly, it’s easy to mistakenly confuse Yaquis and Mayos (also native to Sonora and Sinaloa) due to their cultural and linguistic similarities. Additionally, throughout time, Yaquis have exhibited significant mobility throughout the whole state and even beyond political borders, so it was not rare to find them in Álamos or in Cananea.

Map of Sonora - Sinaloa.
Lizars Mexico & Guatimala 1831 UTA (Detail Sonora Sinaloa). Source: Wikimedia Commons

Although these sources are revealing, the voices and worldviews of the Yaquis are not intact in the archive. And it is crucial to understand how their testimonies were collected in any given case. Usually, in regular proceedings, they responded to specific questions rather than were allowed to speak spontaneously and freely. If, on the other hand, the individual or individuals were looking to get legal protection (amparo), they presented their testimony in written form before the Supreme Court.

It is also important to emphasize that statements in civil or criminal procedure documents are not verbatim transcriptions. Instead, they are presented by the scribes in an abridged and polished (again, very positivist) format through indirect narration. In this sense, we might think that the legal protection cases present a less manipulated testimony since they could write them themselves. However, considering the historical context and supported by the amparo cases that I have consulted, the Yaquis who sought legal protection were rarely literate. In many instances, other interested parties assisted in the case, often with personal interests at stake. In addition to oral and written testimonies, one can sporadically find other types of evidence, such as letters, receipts, contracts, and even material records.

So, if we are presented with a filtered and mediated testimony of the indigenous peoples, how can we find their voices and worldviews? Having a deep understanding of the historical context and the way the judicial process took place provides the best starting point. Carefully analyzing the declarations and contrasting and comparing them with other sources (both primary and secondary) allows us to identify potential biases, misunderstandings, distortions, or erasures. Interpreting the sources with an Indigenous framework can also help us gain insights into the meaning, vocabulary, nuances, implications, and even silences of the testimonies. With a thorough analysis, judicial documents can give us a glimpse, and sometimes even more, to Yaquis’ perspectives, values, and worldviews.

These archives are a window to observe how the Yaquis navigated and interacted with the Mexican legal system at a time when the government persecuted and aimed to exterminate them, and how they were represented or misrepresented in judicial processes. Judicial documents showcase how the Yaquis were being targeted not only by the government, but the Sonoran population as well, and how the Yaquis were also the perpetrators of common and federal law cases during the time of war. They provide details and testimonies on revolts, “seditious activities”, and overall disobedience to the government, and they also give us a glimpse into their quotidian lives and how they resisted the war.

The collections of the Archive of the Judicial Branch of the state of Sonora, and the Archive of the House of Legal Culture offer valuable insights into the history of the Yaqui people in the 19th and early 20th centuries. I hope my approach and methodology can be a model for those interested in delving into legal documents in other parts of Mexico, as each federal entity has its own branches of these archives. Despite the challenges each of them presents, these archives are a rich and often underutilized source of information for historians researching not only legal matters but also the broader history of Sonora and its Indigenous and non-indigenous populations.

I would like to express special thanks to all the archivists at the Archives of the Judicial Branch of the State of Sonora, in particular to Bennya Román Flores, whose generosity and dedication have been fundamental for the completion of this work. I also thank the collaborators of the Casa de la Cultura Jurídica in Hermosillo, especially Adrián Pérez, for his patience and constant support while consulting multiple boxes of documents.

Raquel Torua Padilla is a doctoral candidate in the Department of History at the University of Texas at Austin. She holds a B.A. in History from the Universidad de Sonora and is currently a CONTEX Fellow. Her research focuses on the history of Indigenous peoples in the Northwest of Mexico and the U.S. Southwest, with a particular emphasis on the Yaqui people. Her current projects examine Yaqui militias and their diaspora during the 19th and 20th centuries.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

[1] The procedures for consulting the Concentration archives are different from those of the historical part of the archive. In this piece, I will only discuss the historical collections of both archives.

[2] Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, penal codes for each state continued to be created and adapted.

[3] García Ramírez, Sergio. 1998. Panorama del derecho penal mexicano. Derecho penal. Mexico: UNAM, McGraw-Hill.

[4] Pérez Moreno Colmenero, Silvia. 2001. Valores para la democracia. Delitos e infracciones administrativas. México: Instituto Nacional para la Educación de los Adultos. 09/13/2024 http://www.oas.org/udse/cd_educacion/cd/Materiales_conevyt/VPLD/delitos.PDF

[5] “Archivo General del Poder Judicial del Estado”. 09/13/2024: https://www.stjsonora.gob.mx/ArchivoPJE/#:~:text=Dentro%20de%20nuestros%20archivos%20se,Estado%20de%20Sonora%20y%20Sinaloa.

[6] “Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en Hermosillo. Ministro José María Ortiz Tirado”. 09/13/2024: https://www.sitios.scjn.gob.mx/casascultura/casas-cultura-juridica/hermosillo-sonora

[7] Leyva Meneses, Hans Ildefonso. 2004. Catálogo para las fuentes documentales de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en el estado de Sonora, serie juicios de amparo, 1900-1917. Tesis de licenciatura. Hermosillo: Universidad de Sonora. And Barboza Enciso, Ulloa. 2004.  Catálogo del archive de la Casa de la Cultura Jurídica en el Estado de Sonora del Poder Judicial de la Federación, sección juzgado quinto de distrito del quinto circuito, serie juicios de amparo, 1918-1928. Tesis de licenciatura. Hermosillo: Universidad de Sonora

[8] Presented either by writing, in legal seeking cases, or by interrogation, in civil and criminal proceedings.

[9] In this case, information on whether the informant speaks Spanish or not, and whether an interpreter was used, is also available.

The bold political style of Luciano Cruz: The Chilean student protests of 1967

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The following narrative is adapted from my recent dissertation on revolutions in Latin America. When I shared it with upper division history students for a class discussion, the story surprised them. Most of them had only ever experienced student government as something to put on your resumé for grad school applications. They had never imagined that student activism could be so decisive for crucial issues of public policy. The Chilean experience seemed to awaken their interest in a rich local legacy of passionate student activism and of unconditional commitment to causes that transcend personal gain. Here I share the story of the bold political style of Luciano Cruz.

As Chile’s first Christian Democratic government attempted to bring social justice through reform during the mid-1960s, medical students in the nation’s second city proposed a more radical change. In a political system designed to concede real power only to the already powerful, they argued, a mere change of government leadership would never suffice. Along with a few disaffected union organizers, the students at the University of Concepción, located in Chile’s second city, formed the Movement of the Revolutionary Left, (MIR), proposing a new constitutional order that, they hoped, would uplift Chile’s perennially poor and underprivileged.

The undisputed leader among the students was the fiery and brilliant Miguel Enríquez, who in 1961, had written on his medical school application essay, “everything has been given to me…, the time has come to give back.” Like Che Guevara before him, the call to heal the sick blended seamlessly with the call to make revolution for the poor. His classmate and best friend, Luciano Cruz, brought a uniquely impulsive energy and irresistible charm to that struggle. The political style of Luciano Cruz allowed him to knew how to rouse, entertain, and impassion any crowd at a moment’s notice.

Picture of Miguel Enríquez
Miguel Enríquez. Source: Resumen
Picture of Luciano Cruz
Luciano Cruz. Source: Resumen

Whereas Enríquez made measured, brilliant speeches—many of which have survived as written documents—his energetic deputy could improvise behind a microphone, holding the multitude spellbound for hours. Historian Marian Schlotterbeck points to Cruz’s debut as a student leader during a 1965 protest of the recent fare increase in public transportation. Chile’s largest labor federation, CUT, (Central Única de Trabajadores), had called for the protest, and they had invited Cruz as one who “embodied the contentious, combative style of the Concepción student movement.” Schlotterbeck points out that there was more at stake than just bus money. “Amidst wild applause,” she writes, “Cruz proclaimed that the demonstrations were no longer about fare hikes but ‘a demonstration by Chile’s poor against the rich.’”[1]

By 1967, Luciano Cruz had set his sights on the presidency of the student federation. The university had reached a crossroads. The Christian Democratic government of Eduardo Frei was promoting university reform on a national scale. Frei’s men had lifted up the University of Concepción as a model. They wanted to restructure higher learning as a driving force for modernization. But members of the newly configured MIR, known as Miristas, understood the plan as an attempt to co-opt and “Americanize” their university. Cruz would become MIR’s candidate to spearhead the resistance.

While technically private, the University of Concepción depended on funding from UNESCO and the Ford Foundation, making it vulnerable to foreign interference in crucial policy decisions.[2] With MIR’s support, the student federation (FEC) demanded the democratization of the power structure so that students and junior professors could have a voice in the decision-making process. But MIR had to win the presidency of the student federation to legitimize its proposal. Focusing his campaign on ideology, class interests, and the social role of the university, Miguel Enríquez had failed in his bid for that office two years earlier. This time, Miguel recognized his classmate’s dynamic advantage. Luciano’s landslide victory in Concepción marked MIR’s arrival as a national political force.

Schlotterbeck highlights a “new brand of audacious student activism” that would predominate in the student federation, transforming university students into political actors on a national scale.[3] Undergrads—and some even younger protestors—made headlines with strikes, street protests, and the occupation of campus buildings. Riot police confronted them with tear gas, truncheons, and water cannons. Jailed students went on hunger strikes, and their objectives began to escalate. Miguel Enríquez called for more than just a university reform. The time had come for a true university revolution. His statement to that effect appeared in the preeminent national magazine of the non-aligned intellectual left, Punto Final, with a photo of Luciano Cruz in a scuffle with five police officers that would become iconic.

Luciano Cruz in close contact with policemen.
Luciano Cruz defies Carabineros, Punto Final, 38, (septiembre 1967), 30
Trojan horse depiction, CIA inside the wooden structure. Drawing
CIA agents use the Peace Corps as their Trojan Horse. Punto Final, 47, (enero 1968), 47

Miguel directed MIR’s leadership to confront the “legal dictatorship” of the current system with relentless combat. They should denounce every detail, he said, so that the forces of repression were compelled not only to cease and desist, but to give ground.[4] On that note, MIR demanded the immediate expulsion of four Peace Corps volunteers from the University of Concepción. Perceived as the youth branch of the dubiously regarded Alliance for Progress, the Peace Corps presence symbolized the imperialist assumptions behind Frei’s model of reform.[5] Students argued that Peace Corps volunteers took up much needed space at the university residence. They also voiced their suspicions (likely credible) that Peace Corps volunteers had provided a stream of inside information to U.S. intelligence services.[6]

While Enríquez focused on the national politics of the reform, Cruz emerged as MIR’s chief tactician and spokesperson. Under his command, at one of their daily demonstrations, students in Concepción abducted a police officer. After holding him hostage in the university for several days, they offered his release in exchange for the same for all the students who had been arrested during recent protests.[7] The symbolic value of that gesture weighed heavily. With it, students reconfigured their recent detentions by Carabineros as similarly random and arbitrary abductions.

Carabineros fought back. They arrested Cruz, and the movement seemed to fall apart until Cruz dramatically escaped from jail and waltzed back into the meeting where student leaders discussed their next move.[8] Although the details of Cruz’ escape remain unclear, his stealth and proficiency in the martial arts seem to have played a part. His return to the front line provided a huge boost for morale, dramatically enhancing his personal mystique and his reputation for dauntless courage and invincibility. It also established MIR’s place in the leadership of the student federation at the Universidad de Concepción (FEC) for the foreseeable future.

Picture of student protest in Concepción
Student protest in Concepción. Source: https://www.diarioconcepcion.cl/politica/2019/05/22/reforma-en-la-udec-buscando-mas-participacion.html

But MIR’s ambitions did not stop with the student federation in Concepción. Members of the movement’s inner circle did not want Chileans to think of them as merely the radical fringe of the nation’s restless youth. Aligning themselves with the youthful and dynamic Cuban revolution, Miristas defied the perennial lethargy of Chile’s traditional left to project a hugely inflated image of the new movement’s political significance. Their claim had no real basis in the number of militants, access to material resources, or concrete influence in social organizations, but Mirista leadership bet on the oppressed masses’ perception of their growing visibility as a foreshadowing of an imminent and viable armed revolt. In his incisive analysis of the MIR phenomenon, literary scholar Hernán Vidal observes that MIR’s Comité Central manipulated the obvious contrast between an appearance of mythical power and a reality of tactical impotence, calling it a strategy of “establishing presence.”[9] They didn’t have to really be everywhere; they only had to seem to be everywhere. Luciano Cruz figured as the master of MIR’s expanding illusion of ubiquity.

Until 1969, MIR had mostly operated out in the open. Their practical jokes and disruptions only remained covert until they had succeeded. Then, they generated positive PR. But a pivotal student prank in Concepción would initiate a period of tension between the gregarious publicity that had shaped MIR’s style and method, and a new strategy of strict secrecy. As fate would have it, Luciano Cruz’ impulsive abduction of a local journalist in June of that year provoked the ire of the Frei government, driving the entire movement underground for the first time. Miristas had to learn to hide their militant activities and to use code names. The demands of clandestine living made MIR a more dangerous commitment for new recruits, but it also provided an undeniable aura of romance.

Kidnappings, though frequent, lucrative, and lethal among revolutionary movements in Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina, did not figure in MIR’s habitual playbook. Leaders observed that, in terms of promoting public sympathy for the cause, they usually backfired. But acting independently, Luciano’s regional task force in Concepción crossed the line with a targeted prank in the austral winter of 1969. The Christian Democratic journalist, Hernán Osses Santa María, had lost his job at the University of Concepción because of the reform. He got his revenge by disparaging young Miristas in his editorials. He never criticized their politics. He derided their personal lives, and he made fun of their girlfriends. That seemed to violate an unspoken code of honor. The clever Luciano Cruz decided to teach him a lesson in respect.

Photograph of members of the Central Committee of the Revolutionary Left Movement (MIR) during a press conference. From left to right are Roberto Moreno, Luciano Cruz, Nelson Gutiérrez, Miguel Enríquez, Bautista Van Schouwen and Andrés Pascal.
Fotografía Conferencia de prensa MIR. Source: Archivo Digital Londres 38

Luciano’s team of tricksters abducted Osses Santa María with the archaic idea of tarring and feathering him. Finding no tar, they released him naked in the courtyard of the university during an annual event. There was no real harm done, except to Christian Democratic pride. The Frei government took advantage of the public outcry to invoke a national security statute declaring MIR illegal, and to order the arrest of the Secretary General, along with his wily second in command.[10] That meant that most of MIR’s operatives had to go underground, something Miguel Enríquez had in mind anyway. Cruz had not cleared his plan with the more prudent Enríquez, but his audacity triggered MIR’s rather sudden transition from the gentler politics of campus protests and community organizing to a more decisive program of direct action; most of it, illicit; and some of it, armed. Cleverly-staged bank robberies, framed as Robin Hood style gestures of taking from the rich to benefit the poor, became the order of the day. Ever sensitive to the importance of good publicity, however, the students took precautions to make sure that no one ever got hurt.

After the election of Chile’s first Socialist President, Dr. Salvador Allende, in September of 1970, MIR continued to agitate for faster and more radical reform, but without the emphasis on spectacular disruptions of daily routines. Luciano Cruz took a flat in Santiago, where he conducted a covert program of surveillance, keeping watch over potential coup-plotting generals and their supporters. To this end, he recruited a sizeable contingent of young militants who learned to quietly follow and watch. In that role, Cruz’ team pieced together all the elements of the right-wing attempt to prevent Salvador Allende’s inauguration to the presidency, one that culminated in the assassination of General René Schneider, a trusted army commander.[11] Chilean police investigators, more attuned to internal bureaucracy and protocol than really solving crimes, had failed to break the case, but Cruz’ investigation uncovered embarrassing complicity that reached to the highest levels. Though published in Punto Final, the justice system failed to follow up on his findings.

Picture of funeral procession of Luciano Cruz
Funeral de Luciano Cruz. Source: Archivo Digital Londres 38

Luciano Cruz died of accidental gas inhalation in his one-room basement flat in downtown Santiago on August 14, 1971. After he missed an arranged meeting, Miguel Enríquez discovered his friend’s lifeless body. He frantically attempted to revive him, but it was too late. A CIA report surmised that Enríquez might have had Cruz murdered to resolve an internal power struggle.[12] But gas heaters in those days had no safety valves, and Luciano had been complaining of morning headaches for a week. All the witnesses mentioned the smell of gas in the flat. So it was likely careless rather than malicious.

Tens of thousands followed the funeral procession in support of the charismatic Luciano Cruz and the incisive student protest movement he represented.[13] MIR would never be the same without him. But, to this day, Chilean students put their whole heart and soul into their protests.

Nathan Stone, Professor of Instruction at the University of Texas and a recent Ph.D. recipient from the Department of History (2023) of the same institution. His specialization is Modern Latin American revolutionary movements. Previously, he lived and taught in Chile for thirty years, Uruguay for two, and IN Brazil for five. H is fluent in Spanish and Portuguese, and he has published his writing, both academic and non-fiction, in both languages.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Banner image source: http://archivodigital.londres38.cl/index.php/afiche-del-comite-de-solidaridad-luciano-cruz

[1] Marian E. Schlotterbeck, Beyond the Vanguard: Everyday Revolutionaries in Allende’s Chile (Oakland, University of California Press, 2018), 23.

[2] Schlotterbeck, Beyond the Vanguard, (2018), 26; Punto Final, 12, (septiembre 1966), 16-18.

[3] Schlotterbeck, Beyond the Vanguard, (2018), 26.

[4] Punto Final, 40, (oct 1967), 37.

[5] Punto Final, 12, (sept 1966), 18; Punto Final, 37, (sept 1967), 39, and Punto Final, 40, (oct 1967), 36.

[6] Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War: Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times. (UK: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 35; and Punto Final, 32, (julio 1967), suplemento, 1-10.

[7] Schlotterbeck, Beyond the Vanguard, (2018), 26.

[8] “La rebelión de la juventud,” in Punto Final, 38, septiembre 1967, 28-30.

[9] Hernán Vidal, Presencia del MIR: 14 Claves Existenciales (Chile, Mosquito Comunicaciones, 1999), 28.

[10] Punto Final, 138, 31 agosto 1971, suplemento, 5.

[11] “El MIR denuncia a los verdaderos culpables del asesinato del General Schneider,” in Punto Final, 117, 10 noviembre 1970, suplemento, 1-10.

[12] CIA, Directorate of  Intelligence, 1141-1.37, Confidential, 1 October 1971, declassified September (1999),  https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/DOC_0000365918.pdf.   

[13] Jorge Müller Silva, “Funerales de Luciano Cruz Aguayo, 16 de agosto de 1971.” First released 1972; remastered by Chilefilms, Santiago, (2014).

Review of The Science of Useful Nature in Central America: Landscapes, Networks, and Practical Enlightenment, 1784–1838, by Sophie Brockmann (2020).

Banner for Review of The Science of Useful Nature in Central America

What is the ‘Enlightenment’? This is a question that has occupied scholars ever since Kant. But historians no longer focus on great white heroes to provide answers. Yet sociologies of knowledge on the ‘Enlightenment’ continue to render the experiences of the north Atlantic normative. These sociologies tell us that the Enlightenment was not about secular radicals using reason to topple the religious and feudal hierarchies of the ancien régime. It was rather about new forms of sociability triggered by revolutions in print and communication that made a republic of letters and a public sphere of coffee shops and periodicals possible. These new bottom-up institutions, as this narrative has it, allowed for new mercantile middle classes to challenge top-down hierarchies of knowledge and politics.

As common as it is, this model, however, does not fit most global experiences of the ‘Enlightenment’. In a 2020 study, Brockmann investigates the case of turn-of-nineteenth-century Central America to challenge the norm.

Brockmann brings to life a coterie of religious and lay Spanish American bureaucracies that for some forty years were obsessed with ‘bringing light’ onto everyone, from Chiapas to Costa Rica. Engineers, military officers, architects, bishops, field justices, priests, high court judges, doctors, lawyers, landowners, among many others, organized themselves in patriotic societies to produce a newspaper to network and to circulate only ‘useful’ knowledge aimed at transforming local landscapes. One could argue that this community was a ‘public sphere’ created by print culture. Yet Brockmann demonstrates that these were colonial bureaucracies who were prompted by top-down crown initiatives to create patriotic societies and newspapers to communicate and innovate. Moreover, in the kingdom of Guatemala, landscapes were constantly threatened by earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, locust, anthrax, typhus, smallpox, and falling prices of indigo, the main staple.

An Indian gathers cochineal with a deer tail. Painting.
An Indian gathers cochineal with a deer tail José Antonio de Alzate y Ramírez 1777. Source: Wikimedia Commons

How to produce indigo, flax, silk? How to avoid tropical miasmas caused by rotten, humid tropical trees?  How to reorganize settlement patterns and prompt populations to settle in both Pacific and Atlantic new ports? How to reengineer mercantile circuits opening new roads? These bureaucracies had long drafted reports on local demography, production, roads, landscapes. Bishops, field justices, court magistrates, and municipal authorities of the various administrative units of the kingdom of Guatemala, a territory that covered dozens of cities and towns from southern Mexico to northern Panama, had long crisscrossed the lands and produced paperwork to mete out justice and enact reform.

They embodied the Enlightenment as much as the late eighteenth-century engineers and judges Brockmann has chosen to study. All lay and religious colonial bureaucracies, Habsburg and Bourbon, used archives to develop a sense of the changing nature of territories bewildered by contingency, disaster, and environmental change. Guatemala’s capital, alone, was twice obliterated, relocated, and rebuilt after eruptions and earthquakes. Theirs was an enlightenment of ever-changing landscapes and bureaucratic archives.

Brockmann demonstrates that these bureaucratic networks held together by new patriotic societies and print embraced new languages of utility and political economy but not necessarily new practices of paperwork and administering knowledge and land reform. Transfixed by the idea of Enlightenment progress and innovation, Brockmann artificially separates these late eighteenth-century bureaucracies from their robust predecessors, neglecting some two hundred years of bureaucratic audits, reports, and endless horizontal and vertical communication with peers, and local and peninsular authorities. 

Códice Dehesa. Source: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia (INAH)

The assumption to see bureaucracies of engineers, architects, bishops, and priests as the product of Bourbon reforms, leads Brockmann to eliminate all bottom-up communication. These bureaucracies communicated constantly with ‘Indians” and Blacks through myriad mechanisms of tribunals and audits. Indigenous communities had their own paperwork bureaucracies. It is therefore strange that Indian and Black voices are almost absent in Brockmann’s study. Either these populations did not get to participate in the new networks of print and sociability (patriotic societies and merchant tribunals) or Brockmann assumes that in the Spanish Empire these populations rarely talked, particularly after the Enlightenment reforms. That their voices dimmed with the Bourbon reforms might well be true, but this is something that requires detailed research rather than vague assumptions.

Brockmann interpretation of Enlightenment is unquestionably important. It shows that something peculiar happened in the Spanish empire as the language of light, patriotism, and utility replaced religious discourses of service among both lay and religious bureaucracies. Utility meant a rejection of abstraction. The Gazeta of Guatemala, the newspaper of the reformers, privileged articles that had demonstrable utility at the very local level, privileging empirical local knowledge over theory. Linnaeus was rejected, indigenous plant taxonomies were embraced. 

In this world, the pursuit of utility was a language of commitment for both empire and local community.  Brockmann avoids any discussion of “creole” identities leading to friction with peninsular outsiders, the alleged culture of resentment that prefigures the conflict of the wars of independence. The Science of Useful Nature in Central America takes issue with my own work on “science” and creole patriotism (albeit mine is rather on patriotic epistemologies, not science) because the members of these patriotic networks saw themselves as neither ‘Spaniards” nor ‘Creoles’. Since the author focuses on networks of local lay and religious bureaucrats one could argue that patriotism was simply a manifestation of love of service to king, empire, and community to be compensated by grace privileges.

Cover of The Science of Useful Nature in Central America

Brockmann shows that with Independence, these bureaucracies continued serving a Federal Republic, no longer a global monarchy. Yet their concerns and modus operandi remained the same. These bureaucracies started to develop networks of all kinds with the British empire, political, economic, and particularly scientific. Brockmann demonstrates that many of the new republican bureaucracies began to transfer colonial archives of maps and reports to the British state as they sought to secure loans, support, or simply old-fashion patronage. Enlightenment came to mean plunder.

Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra is the Alice Drysdale Sheffield Professor of History at the University of Texas at Austin.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

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