"The Vision of the Vanquished": Knowledge Europe Destroyed—and that the U.S. Power Structure Still Fears, by Angela Valenzuela, Ph.D.

"The Vision of the Vanquished": Knowledge Europe Destroyed—and that the U.S. Power Structure Still Fears

by

Angela Valenzuela, Ph.D.

December 24, 2025

You may view and listen to this blog here also posted below.

There is a great deal to ponder when we sit with the historical record not from the conqueror’s pen, but from the voices of those who survived conquest.

One learns of some of these communities through Miguel León-Portilla’s landmark work, The Broken Spears (Visión de los vencidos). Drawn from original Nahuatl sources written in the 1500s and published in 1959, the book offers the closest account we have of the invasion of Tenochtitlan—today’s Mexico City—from the perspective of the invaded. 

León-Portilla’s contribution was not to interpret these voices into comfort, but to preserve them as testimony, gathered and preserved across numerous archives by the children of survivors, allowing the vanquished to speak in their own words (León-Portilla, 1959/2006).

This fullest surviving account reveals not only the great cultural and linguistic diversity within and around Tenochtitlan, but also its extraordinary sophistication. At the time of the Spanish invasion, Tenochtitlan was a meticulously planned metropolis with engineered causeways, freshwater aqueducts, regulated markets, and sanitation systems that surpassed those of most European cities. 

It practiced chinampa agriculture—one of the most productive and sustainable farming systems ever developed—and maintained universal education through formal schools for both elites and commoners (León-Portilla, 1959/2006; Mann, 2005). While much of Europe struggled with overcrowding, open sewers, and periodic famine, Tenochtitlan functioned as a clean, ordered, ecologically attuned urban center.

See 3-D digital reconstruction of Tenochtitlan by Thomas Kole (2017)

Perhaps the most revealing evidence of Tenochtitlan’s advancement comes from Spanish eyewitnesses themselves. Bernal Díaz del Castillo, a conquistador who participated in the invasion, wrote in astonishment:

“We were amazed… at the great cities and towns built on the water… it all seemed like an enchantment from a book of chivalry” (Díaz del Castillo, 1632/2012, Book II, chap. 88)

Díaz del Castillo compared Tenochtitlan to Venice, widely regarded as Europe’s most advanced city at the time—a comparison that carries extraordinary weight precisely because it comes from a hostile witness (Díaz del Castillo, 1967). This was not a primitive settlement encountered by Europeans bringing “civilization.” It was a civilization Europe encountered and chose to destroy.

The devastation was led by Hernán Cortés, whose actions would today be unambiguously described as war crimes. The violence was so severe that even Spain eventually distanced itself from him. Yet colonial narratives have long recast this annihilation of an advanced society as discovery or progress.

One of the most haunting statements preserved in The Broken Spears comes from an Indigenous eyewitness, paraphrased but searing in its clarity: they came, they conquered, and they never once asked what our cosmovision was (León-Portilla, 1959/2006). This sentence names colonial violence at its deepest level—not only the theft of land and life, but the refusal to recognize another way of knowing the world.

León-Portilla does not attempt to resolve this wound. Aside from his methodological introduction, the book remains an anthology of voices. That restraint matters. It resists the colonial impulse to narrate devastation into closure or to translate loss into lessons that absolve the conqueror.

The destruction of Tenochtitlan was not the result of cultural inferiority, but of a refusal to recognize another civilization as worthy of study, much less of existing. That refusal did not end in the sixteenth century. Today, it reappears in more bureaucratic and sanitized form—in the backlash against Ethnic Studies, in the dismantling of DEI initiatives, and in policies that treat minoritized knowledge as dangerous, divisive, or expendable.

Once again, majorities move through institutions without asking the descendants of this same history what they know—or what might be redemptive about their ways of knowing, doing, and being in the world. Ethnic Studies does precisely what conquest refused to do: it asks whose cosmovisions were silenced, what knowledge survived anyway, and how those knowledge systems might offer more humane, truthful, and sustainable ways forward. That is precisely why it is being targeted.

The attack on Ethnic Studies and DEI is not about rigor, neutrality, or free inquiry. It is about control—about preserving institutions that still cannot bear to ask what minoritized communities know, remember, value, or imagine beyond the colonial frame. Visión de los vencidos reminds us that dismantling does not always arrive with swords or cannons; sometimes it comes as legislation, budget cuts, appeals to “neutrality,” and so-called program “consolidations” that quietly strip resources, power, and voice—once again refusing to listen.

Until we recognize these attacks for what they are—today’s version of institutional dismantling or "conquest"—we will continue to mistake erasure for "balance" and domination for "progress."

None of this has to be feared. Asking what was never asked—listening to the descendants of conquest and recognizing the redemptive possibilities of their ways of knowing, doing, and being—does not weaken institutions; it humanizes them. What threatens democratic life is not Ethnic Studies or DEI, but the continued refusal to listen and know.

References

Díaz del Castillo, B. (1967). The true history of the conquest of New Spain (Vol. 3). Lulu. com.

Kole, T. (2017). Tenochtitlan: 3-D digital reconstruction of the Aztec capital [Digital reconstruction]. Independent project. https://tenochtitlan.thomaskole.nl/

León-Portilla, M. (1959/2006). The broken spears: The Aztec account of the conquest of Mexico. Beacon Press.

Visit my Youtube Vlog here.

POWERFUL TEXT FOR THESE TIMES: The Broken Spears (La Visión de lo Vencidos) by Miguel Leon Portilla

Friends,

I encourage everyone to read the truly magisterial text published in 1959 by the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM), The Broken Spears: The Aztec Account of the Conquest of Mexico by Dr. Miguel León-Portilla. Originally compiled from texts written in Nahuatl and translated into Spanish before being rendered into English by Lysander Kemp, this work provides invaluable insight into the Indigenous perspective on the Spanish conquest. The illustrations in the text, adapted from original paintings found in authentic codices, were created by Alberto Beltrán.

A crucial clarification: Dr. Miguel León-Portilla (February 22, 1926 – October 1, 2019) did not write The Broken Spears himself, aside from his introduction. Instead, this text is a meticulously compiled historical record that preserves firsthand Indigenous accounts written in the aftermath of the Spanish invasion of Tenochtitlán, now Mexico City. It's chock full of lessons for today—like right now with the dismantling of our own government institutions and processes.

The Broken Spears draws on evidence from codices and other writings, including formal pleas to King Philip of Spain, imploring his mercy in light of the devastation and trauma suffered by the Aztecs, or Mexica [pronounced me-chí-ca], following the Spanish-led invasion and the ultimate fall of Tenochtitlán in 1521. These accounts acknowledge the complexity of Indigenous responses to the Spanish presence—some groups aligned with Hernán Cortés, believing they were securing their own futures, only to have their trust cruelly betrayed by the invaders.

I sympathize with those who sought peace, for among the Mexica were true peacemakers who hoped for a harmonious coexistence. Yet their choices had lasting, unintended consequences, as is evident from the sorrowful and tragic letters to King Philip. The Indigenous peoples were divided, and some found elements of Christian teachings resonant with their own worship of the Sun God, making conversion to Christianity less alien than commonly assumed.

This text offers an unflinching and vivid portrayal of the fall of Tenochtitlán, immersing readers in the catastrophe as if it had happened yesterday. The narrative is gripping, haunting, and profoundly moving. Even after reading Dr. León-Portilla’s introduction—which is fascinating in its own right—one cannot help but be drawn deeply into the Indigenous testimonies. I highly recommend the audiobook version, which powerfully conveys the intensity of the events described.

Without a doubt, despite his extensive scholarship, The Broken Spears stands as Dr. León-Portilla’s most significant and enduring contribution. He was one of Mexico’s greatest anthropological minds, and La Visión de los Vencidos (the Spanish title of The Broken Spears) remains a groundbreaking work in the study of Indigenous perspectives on the conquest. It gives voice to the Nahuatl people, who perhaps foresaw that future generations would read their words and bear witness to their suffering and resilience. How prescient and thoughtful our ancestors were.

What I additionally find fascinating is it captures a moment in world history before the concept of race or racism existed, but rather ethnicity, including among the "Tenoch" peoples themselves and beyond. 

I look forward to a reading group we have formed that is dedicated to discussing this essential text, and I encourage all of you to read it as well. For ease of reference, I have included a video of Dr. León-Portilla speaking about The Broken Spears, as well as a Wikipedia entry on Miguel León-Portilla. 

Angela Valenzuela

Wikipedia, Miguel León-Portilla 

Miguel León-Portilla (22 February 1926 – 1 October 2019)[1] was a Mexican anthropologist and historian, specializing in Aztec culture and literature of the pre-Columbian and colonial eras. Many of his works were translated to English and he was a well-recognized scholar internationally. In 2013, the Library of Congress of the United States bestowed on him the Living Legend Award.[2]

Early life and education[edit]

Born in Mexico City, Miguel León-Portilla had an interest in indigenous Mexico from an early age, fostered by his uncle Manuel Gamio, a distinguished archeologist. Gamio had a lasting influence on his life and career, initially taking him as a boy on trips to important archeological sites in Mexico and later as well.[3] León-Portilla attended the Instituto de Ciencias in Guadalajara and then earned a B.A. (1948) and M.A. summa cum laude (1951) at the Jesuit Loyola University in Los Angeles. Returning to Mexico in 1952, he showed Gamio a play he had written on Quetzalcoatl, which resulted in Gamio introducing his nephew to Ángel Garibay K., whose publications in the 1930s and 1940s first brought Nahuatl literature to widespread public attention in Mexico. Needing to make a living, León-Portilla began attending law school and worked at a financial firm. At the same time he taught at Mexico City College, an English-language school in the Condesa neighborhood. Other instructors included important scholars of Mexican indigenous history and culture, Wigberto Jiménez Moreno, Fernando Horcasitas, and Eduardo Noguera. Gamio persuaded León-Portilla to drop his law studies and job in business to work at the Inter-American Indian Institute [es; pt], a specialized organization of the Organization of American States,[4] which Gamio directed.[5] León-Portilla began graduate studies at the UNAM, completing his doctoral dissertation, La Filosofía Náhuatl estudiada en sus fuentes, in 1956, which launched his scholarly career.[6]

Career[edit]

His dissertation on Nahua philosophy was published in Mexico, and then translated to English as Aztec Thought and Culture: A Study of the Ancient Nahuatl Mind (1967) and then many other languages.[7] It was the first of his many works to be translated to English. His translations of Nahuatl and Spanish texts on the conquest of Mexico, first published in Mexico as Visión de los vencidos, translated to English as The Broken Spears, is the way many undergraduate students in the United States are introduced to accounts from indigenous participants and not Spanish conquistadors.[8]

León-Portilla spearheaded a movement to understand and re-evaluate Nahuatl literature and religion, not only from the pre-Columbian era, but also that of the present day, especially since Nahuatl is still spoken by 1.5 million people.[2] His works in English on literature included Pre-Columbian Literatures of Mexico (1986),[9] Fifteen Poets of the Aztec World (2000),[10] and with Earl Shorris, In the Language of Kings: An Anthology of Mesoamerican Literature, Pre-Columbian to the Present (2002).[11] He also compared the literature of the Nahuas with that of the Inca.[12] Another area of research was on indigenous religion and spirituality, with works including Native Meso-American Spirituality (1980),[13] and South and Meso-American Native Spirituality: From the Cult of the Feathered Serpent to the Theology of Liberation (1997).[14] He also published a work on the Maya, Time and Reality in the Thought of the Maya (1990).[15]

León-Portilla was instrumental in bringing to light the works of Franciscan Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún, a 16th-century primary source on the Aztec civilization, whose twelve-volume General History of the Things of New Spain, often referred to as the Florentine Codex, are crucial for understanding Nahua religion, society, and culture, as well as for providing an account of the conquest of Mexico from the Mexica viewpoint. León-Portilla was the first to denote Sahagún as the "Father of Anthropology in the New World".[16]

He contributed to the understanding of the development of the field of Mesoamerican history in Mexico. With Garibay, León-Portilla made contributions to the study of nineteenth-century Mesoamerican historian Manuel Orozco y Berra.[17][18] León-Portilla also published two volumes on the work of Mesoamerican humanists, including his mentor Garibay.[19]

In the field of colonial Nahuatl studies, particularly the New Philology, León-Portilla's work on a collection of late sixteenth-century wills in Nahuatl, The Testaments of Culhuacan, contributed to the understanding of local-level interactions within a Nahua town.[20][21]

A subordinate but important interest of León-Portilla was the early history and ethnography of the Baja California Peninsula. He addressed this region in more than 30 books and articles, including a 1995 volume collecting several of his earlier publications.[22]

Early in his academic career in 1969, he was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship.[23] That was the first of many academic awards and recognitions, including the Belisario Domínguez Medal of Honor, the highest award bestowed by the Mexican Senate. In 1970, he was elected to membership of Mexico's National College[24] and, in 1995, to membership of the United States National Academy of Sciences.[25] From 1987 to 1992, he served as his country's permanent delegate to UNESCO, during which time he successfully nominated five pre-Columbian sites in Mexico for inclusion on the World Heritage List.[26] On 12 December 2013, León-Portilla received the Living Legend Award from the U.S. Library of Congress.[2] He was also a member of the Mexican Academy of Language and the Mexican Academy of History.[27]

Personal life[edit]

León-Portilla married Ascensión Hernández Triviño, a Spanish linguist and academic, in 1965. Their daughter, Marisa León-Portilla, is also a historian.[28]

León-Portilla died in Mexico City on 1 October 2019 after having been hospitalized for much of the year.[29] The federal Secretariat of Culture announced that his body would lie in state on 3 October 2019 at the Palacio de Bellas Artes.[29]

Notable works[edit]

"Roma": Una historia de amor y servidumbre / "Roma": A history of love and servitude

I saw the Netflix movie, "Roma," over the holidays and was really moved.  It also resonated with what I have seen and experienced throughout my many years of travel to Mexico, including Mexico City.

For the classroom, it provides much food for thought as it has stirred up some really deep thoughts and strong emotions, in response. N.B. The movie on Netflix is in Spanish and has English subtitles.  Roma recently won the Golden Globe Award for best director and best foreign film.  It's clearly cinema at its very best.  Congratulations to director, Alfonso Cuarón, for this outstanding achievement.*

You can catch up on much of the present conversation by doing the following:

Check out Time.com Magazine's coverage that includes an excellent movie trailer titled, The Real History Behind the Movie Roma by Alejandro de la Garza. 

Check out this equally poignant and powerful movie critique by Joseph M. Pierce  titled, "Roma is a beautiful film of Indigenous erasure."

Finally, read this exquisite, beautifully-written piece by Historian Dr. Enrique Krauz. If you don't read Spanish, it's worth Google translating it.  I did so myself and found the translation to be decent.

Roma has a slow start, but do stick with it as it definitely touches a raw nerve on the structure of race/indigenous, class, gender hierarchy in Mexico with a focus on life in Colonia Roma located in Mexico City largely through the eyes of "Cleo," played by indigenous actress Yalitza Aparicio, a servant who works in the home of a wealthy family.  

At least five 20th century, former presidents of Mexico emanate from this colonia, or neighborhood, namely, Álvaro Obregón, Luis Echeverría, José López Portillo, and Miguel de la Madrid.  The standpoint portrayed herein thusly has enormous implications for Mexican politics, economy, and society as Krauz' piece suggests.

Five stars!  I highly recommend.

-Angela Valenzuela

*Alfonso Cuarón Orozco is a Mexican film director, screenwriter, producer, and editor. He is best known for his dramas Y Tu Mamá También and Roma, the fantasy film Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and the science fiction thrillers Children of Men and Gravity. WikipediaBorn: November 28, 1961 (age 57 years), Mexico City, MexicoNationality: MexicanPartner: Sheherazade Goldsmith (2011–)Spouse: Annalisa Bugliani (m. 2001–2008), Mariana Elizondo (m. 1980–1993)Awards: Golden Lion, Academy Award for Best Director, MORE

‘Roma’: una historia de amor y servidumbre

Por Enrique Krauz 14 de Diciembre, 2018

Yalitza Aparicio, a la izquierda, interpreta a Cleo, la trabajadora 

del hogar de una familia de clase media en Ciudad de México. 

En la escena aparecen también Marco Graf (Pepe) y 

Marina de Tavira (Sofía). CreditCarlos Somonte/Netflix

En una de las escenas de la película de Cuarón, la familia se une en un abrazo durante un viaje a la playa 
CreditCarlos Somonte/Netflix vía Associated Press

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO — La historia de Roma, la película escrita y dirigida por el cineasta mexicano Alfonso Cuarón, es sencilla: la separación de los padres en una familia de clase media mexicana. Octavio Paz, el gran poeta y premio Nobel de literatura, estudió sus acentos específicamente mexicanos en su clásico libro El laberinto de la soledad: el abandono del padre cruel e irresponsable, el sufrimiento estoico de la esposa, el desamparo de los hijos, son hechos que van más allá de un desajuste social. Remiten al trauma de la Conquista de México y el nacimiento mismo de México como país mestizo, hijo ilegítimo de Hernán Cortés y la Malinche.


Las reverberaciones históricas y míticas de ese hecho han estado presentes a lo largo de los siglos, imprimiendo en la vida diaria una violencia abierta o latente, nunca resuelta.

En Roma, sin embargo, ese conflicto se atempera porque la familia no es nuclear: es un nosotros en el que participan mujeres venidas de muy lejos y de muy atrás, indígenas mexicanas que desde tiempos inmemoriales acompañan la vida de los otros, criollos de la ciudad, con una fidelidad que conmueve pero que también desgarra porque es un vestigio de la vida colonial en las haciendas mexicanas.

Aunque generaciones enteras vivieron una infancia como la que evoca Cuarón en Roma, solo él la ha llevado al cine. Es una obra íntima y personal, pero es mucho más. Es el relato realista de una clase social privilegiada que tiene una enorme deuda de desigualdad social, racial y de género con el México campesino e indígena. Es el retrato de una efervescencia política que dio inicio en la década de los sesenta y setenta y que aún no cesa. Y también, es un viaje proustiano, una vuelta al origen.


La colonia Roma, escenario de la película, es un espejo del desarrollo social y la cultural urbanos en el México del siglo XX. Se creó en 1903, al sur del viejo centro colonial de la capital, en terrenos desecados del legendario lago de Texcoco. Con sus palacetes art nouveau, sus plazas apacibles y camellones arbolados, era un emblema de la pax augusta que México creía vivir bajo el régimen de Porfirio Díaz.

Vecina de la Roma, al poniente, nacería poco después la colonia Hipódromo Condesa, famosa por haber albergado el hipódromo donde las familias de aquella exigua y ridícula aristocracia criolla de principios de siglo se imaginaban en el hipódromo parisino de Auteuil. No se veían indios con su típico calzón blanco en esas colonias. El calzón blanco estaba más bien en las haciendas, no en la ciudad.

La Revolución mexicana subvirtió ese orden y, tras una violentísima guerra civil, los nuevos gobiernos pusieron en el centro de la acción pública al México pobre. Al paso de las décadas, ese esfuerzo menguó y muchos campesinos e indígenas no tuvieron más remedio que migrar a Ciudad de México en busca de empleo, ellos en las fábricas, ellas en el servicio doméstico.

La vieja burguesía emigró también de la Roma, su colonia parisina, a zonas más apartadas de la ciudad, abriendo paso a políticos y empresarios, profesionistas y burócratas: los beneficiarios del nuevo orden. La Roma renació, la Hipódromo se expandió. Surgieron hermosos parques, casas y edificios de estilos eclécticos, iglesias neogóticas.

El cineasta mexicano Alfonso Cuarón le da indicaciones a la actriz Yalitza Aparicio. CreditCarlos Somonte/Netflix vía Associated Press

El cineasta mexicano Alfonso Cuarón le da indicaciones a la actriz Yalitza Aparicio. CreditCarlos Somonte/Netflix vía Associated Press

Alfonso Cuarón nació en 1961 en la Roma, yo en la Condesa. Mi historia comenzó catorce años antes, pero es tan típica como la suya. Es la historia de la clase media urbana mexicana. Nuestra casa tenía un diseño llano y funcionalista, con toquecillos art decó en sus herrerías geométricas. La sala, el comedor y la cocina en la planta baja y las recámaras de los padres y los niños (mi hermano, mi hermana y yo) en la parte alta. En el mezzanine, descanso de la escalera de granito, estaba la televisión (en blanco y negro), pero los sonidos de nuestro mundo eran otros. Adentro, los de la radio. Afuera, por las mañanas, las de los “ropavejeros”, los “afiladores”, los atávicos vendedores que recorrían las calles de México voceando sus servicios. Todo era como en el México que Cuarón retrata en Roma.

Nuestra familia, como la de Cuarón, tenía otros rostros, otras presencias tutelares. Del patio trasero subía la escalera al cuarto de las trabajadoras del hogar, “las muchachas”. Hay muchas formas de llamarlas, todas —por desgracia— reminiscentes de la hacienda y del calzón blanco: el servicio, la servidumbre, las criadas.

En mi casa trabajaban dos mujeres. Petra, la “nana” de mis hermanos, y Raquel, su sobrina. Venían del mismo pueblo. Se repartían el trabajo: cocinaban, “hacían las recámaras”, fregaban los pisos, iban al “mandado” (al mercado), lavaban, tendían y planchaban la ropa. Vigilaban nuestro reloj vital. Eran las relatoras de cuentos, las guardianas de la fe, las confidentes, las cantantes. No eran indígenas —como Adela y Cleo, la dulce y estoica mixteca de la película de Cuarón—, eran mestizas pero pronunciaban palabras en náhuatl, y hasta su escritura tenía la caligrafía del México colonial.

Un escena de "Roma" Credit Carlos Somonte/Netflix vía Associated Press

En 1970 y 1971, los años que Cuarón recrea en Roma, la colonia era un laboratorio de convivencia real, no idealizada, con sus colegios de excelencia y sus cabarets y prostíbulos. Recorrer de nuevo esas calles es habitar varios tiempos históricos, no solo por su arquitectura sino por su gente: Juanita, la del puesto de periódicos, la señora de la miscelánea o la farmacia, la de la fonda o el cine Gloria. No es casual que en esa colonia hayan vivido tantos escritores y artistas, mexicanos y extranjeros. En un extremo de la Roma, en el viejo pueblo de “la Romita”, Luis Buñuel filmó varias secuencias de Los olvidados.

Los personajes de Buñuel eran niños callejeros, abandonados por el padre fantasmal, cuya vida nómada dependía de una madre que finalmente  sucumbe a la desesperación y la tragedia. Los niños de Cuarón enfrentan un destino menos cruel. Caminan lejos de la violencia que periódicamente ensangrienta el paisaje mexicano. Pero en sus vidas hay un vacío similar, el del padre, y una luz parecida, la de la madre. En Los olvidados, la madre encarna esa palabra mágica de mil usos que, como escribió Octavio Paz en aquel libro, está en el centro del habla mexicana: la chingada. Es la víctima inerme del macho atrabiliario, la hollada, le hendida, la vencida, la vejada, la abandonada, la desamparada. En Roma, la chingada se desdobla: la señora de la casa y la trabajadora del hogar. Ambas sueñan pero sus sueños son distintos. Sofía, la madre de la familia, sueña en su alcoba con la armonía conyugal y familiar. Cleo, en la azotea de la casa, entre la ropa tendida y el paisaje limpio de la ciudad, sueña con el amor de su novio. Los sueños se trastocan en pesadilla. A ambas mujeres las chingan sus hombres, violentos y pretenciosos, cada uno a su manera.

Pero ellas no sucumben. En cierta forma, su hazaña de supervivencia las convierte de chingadas en chingonas, no porque vejen a nadie: porque unidas se salvan.

La escena emblemática de la película es el abrazo de los cuatro hijos y Sofía con Cleo, entre las olas encrespadas del golfo de México. Más que un abrazo es un árbol de brazos, un árbol sacramental. Es el árbol de la  familia mexicana. Los niños crecerán en el México políticamente convulso de los setenta que se insinúa en la película, con las protestas estudiantiles ante el sistema político del Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), corrupto y anquilosado. Pero tendrán el amparo de las mujeres providentes.

En una de las escenas de la película de Cuarón, la familia se une en un abrazo 
durante un viaje a la playa Credit Carlos Somonte/Netflix vía Associated Press

¿Saldrá adelante Cleo? ¿Formará su propia familia? Una cosa está clara: nadie la chingará más. Liboria Rodríguez, Libo, la mujer real que crió a Cuarón y le inspiró Roma, seguro estará complacida del reciente laudo de la Suprema Corte de Justicia de la Nación otorgando —con retraso de siglos— plenos derechos laborales a empleadas del servicio doméstico, como ella. 

Sofía saldrá adelante, y uno de sus hijos recreará libremente en el cine, medio siglo después, ese milagro que fue la presencia de aquella indígena que melló con puro amor los filos brutales del verbo más terrible de la vida mexicana: el verbo chingar.

Enrique Krauze es historiador, editor de la revista Letras Libres y autor de "El pueblo soy yo". Es también colaborador regular de The New York Times en Español.