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DICTABLANDA
POLITICS, WORK, AND CULTURE IN MEXICO, 1938â?"1968
By PAUL GILLINGHAM, BENJAMIN T. SMITH Duke University Press
Copyright © 2014 Duke University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8223-5631-8
CHAPTER 1
THE END OF THE MEXICAN REVOLUTION?
From Cárdenas to Avila Camacho, 1937–1941
"How [revolutions] end," Hobsbawm once wrote, "seems to have interested recent students much less than how they begin." This may be because histories of revolutions are often written by scholars sympathetic to revolution, who are therefore more interested in finding out how revolutions start than how they stop or can be stopped. Or it may simply be that beginnings are easier to identify and thus to scrutinize. In the case of Mexico, we can date the start of the revolution with some precision: November 18, 1910 (note that the Mexicans began their revolution two days early, the scheduled date being November 20); although, of course, the causes and, if we wish to use the concept, the "precursor movement" take us back into the Porfiriato. But when did the revolution end? It could be argued that, if the outbreak of serious revolutionary violence marks the beginning, then the end should be signaled by the last successful armed rebellion, that of 1920. Indeed, Hobsbawm, following Atkin (hardly an expert guide), suggests that the triumph of Obregón marked "the 'end' of the ... Mexican revolution" in the "minimal" sense that 1920 saw "the end of effective threats to the new regime." However, if we conventionally define revolutions as processes of relatively rapid and radical sociopolitical change, then we would have to take a broader and more inclusive view—after all, the fall of Carranza did not end the pro cess (in fact, it accelerated it), and a definition of "the Revolution" that excluded Cardenismo would, as Hobsbawm notes, seem strangely distorted. He proposes, therefore, a sensible "maximum criterion": "the establishment of the 'new framework' within which the country's historical evolution henceforth takes place."
But when we take a broader view, the problem of closure becomes more acute; while some revolutions end with a bang (i.e., a dramatic counterrevolution of the kind that Stolypin engineered in Tsarist Russia in 1905 and Huerta attempted in Mexico in 1913), many others end with a whimper—a prolonged, wheezing exhalation of revolutionary breath. In that case, "closure" cannot be precisely dated and—as I shall argue—any analysis of "closure" requires us to disentangle a skein of different themes. Regarding Mexico, debates about the "death" of the revolution are nothing new. They have even entered public debate and discourse: José López Portillo famously proclaimed himself "the last president of the Revolution" (conclusion: the revolution ended in or around 1982). Rather more consensus attaches to the view that the revolution ended about forty years earlier. It was then—in or around 1940—that "revolution" gave way to "evolution." By the later 1940s, Daniel Cosío Villegas declared, the revolution was spent; its last breath had been wheezily exhaled: "the goals of the Revolution have been exhausted to such a degree that the term revolution itself has lost its meaning." This is the chronology I will adopt (what ever its intrinsic merits, it conveniently slots this chapter into the volume). I will therefore address the period straddling the Cárdenas/Avila Camacho succession, the period that, arguably, saw the revolution come to an end. First I will try to justify the chronology, identifying the changes that took place in respect of policies, perceptions, and personnel; I then will attempt a causal explanation of these changes.
The Revolution was multifaceted and, chronology aside, there may be further disagreement as to which policies were diagnostic of "the Revolution." And, if we can't in some sense define "the Revolution," we can hardly decide when it died—an inquest needs a body. Some scholars take the 1917 Constitution as definitive; however, as we all know, the Constitution was often honored in the breach; the basic political armature that was carried over from the 1857 Constitution (division of powers, free elections, civil rights) remained more myth or aspiration than guide to practical Mexican politics. Democracy—conventional, representative, "Dahlian" democracy (what Krauze would later call "democracy without adjectives")—thus remained elusive, more a rallying cry of the opposition (notably the Vasconcelista opposition of 1929) than a defining feature of "the Revolution." Furthermore, democracy of this kind does not help us demarcate "the Revolution" from what came after, since, despite a good deal of rhetoric to this effect, there is scant evidence that the transition of the 1940s brought significant "demo cratization." Indeed, democracy came to be used by both Avilacamachistas and Alemanistas as a code word for conservatism, civilian government, or support for the Allied cause in World War II, in which respect they followed a broader Latin American trend (note the opposition to Bolivia's Movimiento Nacional Revolucionario [MNR], which culminated in Gualberto Villaroel swinging from a lamppost in the Plaza Murillo in La Paz in July 1946).
As against the liberal-democratic provisions of the constitution, the "social" clauses, exemplified by articles 27 and 123, were both more distinctive (they were absent in 1857 and were genuinely radical and innovative) and more consequential (they had practical results). While we might agree with Marte R. Gómez that land reform was not just a question of hectares redistributed, we can still take the scale and speed of the reparto as roughly indicative of agrarian radicalism: 1m hectares under Obregón, 3m under Calles, 18m under Cárdenas, 6m under Avila Camacho. Furthermore, if we factor in considerations of land quality, irrigation, credit, protection of private property (often rather euphemistically termed pequeña propiedad), and peasant "empowerment"—the most elusive but not the least important—we can see a notable loss of momentum after 1940. So, too, with labor reform and working class mobilization. The 1930s saw the Federal Labor Code; a rising tide of strikes, some of national significance; the creation of the Confederación de Trabajadores de México (ctm); an improvement in real wages, at least between 1932 and 1937; and radical experiments in workers' control. In contrast, the 1940s witnessed greater control from the top (culminating in the charrazos of the late 1940s), falling real wages, fewer strikes, a weakening of the CTM, and the abolition of workers' control.
An additional key strand of the revolution—neither conventionally liberal-democratic nor socioeconomic—was cultural Jacobinism, evident in articles 3 and 130, and the prolonged battle between church and state, which, in turn, fueled the Cristiada of the 1920s and the socialist education program of the 1930s. Some revolutionaries, like Francisco Múgica, combined social reform and Jacobinism; some, like Cárdenas, favored the first, whereas others, like Calles and Garrido Canabal, favored the second; and quite a few, over time, distanced themselves from both (e.g., Cedillo, Amaro, Almazán; I discuss this "revolutionary apostasy" in conclusion). Either way, Jacobinism played an important part in revolutionary politics through the 1920s and 1930s, but by the 1940s it had radically declined. Avila Camacho made his peace with the church (a process of détente that Alemán was keen to continue after 1946); socialist education was soon wound up; and, in the key education ministry, old-style anticlericalism gave way to a mushy consensual conservatism. The global conjuncture helped: having displayed its patriotic credentials at the time of the (1938) oil nationalization, the church was "definitely included in the unification of the war effort" after 1942.
If agrarianism, labor reform, and anticlericalism were broadly diagnostic of the revolution—that is, the revolución hecha gobierno of the period after 1915—the same cannot be said, with similar confidence, of nationalism, as some might suppose. First, nationalism was much older than the revolution; it had inspired—among others—the generation of patriotic liberals who restored the republic in the 1860s. Furthermore, many of the revolution's enemies—including Federal Army officers and Catholic activists—were, in their own way, just as nationalistic as the revolutionaries they opposed. Even economic nationalism—which could be seen as a hallmark of the revolution, evident in article 27, and the ensuing conflict with the oil companies—is a debatable marker: first, because there were clear stirrings of Porfiran economic nationalism before 1910; second, because revolutionary economic nationalism often was halting and ambivalent; third, because other Latin American governments—who had no time for land reform and little time for labor reform—were not averse to economic nationalist measures; and fourth, because the retreat from revolution that—as I shall conventionally argue—took place after 1940 did not signal an abandonment of economic nationalism. The regime of the PRI, which took a different tack with respect to land, labor, and the church, nevertheless maintained high tariffs, regulated foreign investment, and promoted the "Mexicanization" of the economy.
The shiftin policy—perhaps, even, of "national project"—which occurred after 1940 was a cumulative, piecemeal process, whose full significance only became clear over time, with the benefit of hindsight. But it was apparent from early on. A closer focus on the end of the Cárdenas presidency suggests that the turning point came not in 1940, but in 1937–38 (again, this is no revelation; I am echoing a kind of scholarly consensus, albeit a fairly recent one). The 1937–38 turning point has been stressed by students of both national political economy and regional history. At that point, Cardenismo lost momentum, the loose Cardenista coalition began to fragment, reform stalled, and the Right made a comeback.
Contemporary observers soon saw the straws in the wind. President Cárdenas was seen to be tracking to the center, being "prepared to take a stand against the more outrageous demands of labor," as a result of which labor disputes declined. He continued to row back on official anticlericalism, declaring in March 1940 that he had "no intention ... of attacking religious sentiment and of weakening the affections and respect of children towards their parents." His speeches assumed a more defensive character, taking their cue from conservative scaremongering: "no hay pues un gobierno comunista en México," he reassured listeners. (We may compare this with the bold tones of his famous "fourteen points" speech of February 1936, when he outspokenly challenged the industrial bourgeoisie in Monterrey on its own turf.) By early 1940, Cárdenas was something of a lame duck, and criticism of his administration became more overt and belligerent. Once Avila Camacho assumed the presidency, Cárdenas adopted a low profile: although he continued to exercise influence behind the scenes (and would do so for decades), he did not, like Calles, publicly query the policies or challenge the power of his chosen successor(s). Avila Camacho, of course, accelerated this shift to the Right. As a candidate, he famously declared his Catholicism to be "very moderate" in his public speeches, he seemed to promise "all things to all men"; so conservative and conciliatory was his campaign rhetoric that it became difficult to distinguish the candidate of the official Partido de la Revolución Mexicana (PRM) from the candidate of the opposition Partido Revolucionario de Unificación Nacional (PRUN), Almazán. Once elected, Avila Camacho soon spoke out in favor of ejidal privatization, family values ("filial devotion and brotherly love"), and class harmony (a throwback to the old nostrums of 1920s Callismo). Symbolic change also came quickly. By 1942, it was noted, "the red and black flag seldom flies and salutes are no longer given with the clenched fist."
Of course, checklists of formal policies are far from the whole story. As the example of nationalism suggests, policies—or "policy positions"—do not necessarily come with bold labels proclaiming their location on a left/ right, progressive/conservative, revolutionary/non revolutionary (or antirevolutionary) continuum. Nationalism can be left or right, progressive or conservative, depending on historical circumstances; the same is true of plenty of other "isms" (liberalism, corporatism, even Catholicism). Land and labor reforms are less ambiguous because they carry class connotations, hence—assuming that they are authentic—they also carry progressive, redistributionist connotations (in terms of both property and power). The question to ask is: cui bono? Who (objectively) benefits from a given policy? And—a related but not identical question—how are policies (subjectively) perceived? Here, there is good evidence that contemporary observers saw the 1930s as a period of radical change; that toward the end of the de cade they detected— for better or worse—a swing to the Right, that is, to policies that curtailed redistribution and pop u lar empowerment, and that this perceived shift proved to be real (as I have already suggested) and enduring. By 1940, business opinion was quietly rejoicing that the "ultra-radical regime" of Cárdenas was coming to an end and, since "the great majority of thinking people are now sick of socialism and of the resultant ruin it has brought to the country," it was confidently expected that "the trend over the next few years will be to the right." "Communism"—which some critics dated back to the 1917 Constitution—was now said to be "dying" in Mexico, and, it was thought, "whoever becomes the next president of Mexico, the administration will turn to the Right."
The contemporary observers got it roughly right; at least, my impression is that observers who favored the shift got it right (perhaps because the wish was father to the thought), while those who did not favor it were less percipient, thinking it to be, perhaps, a temporary aberration. Some of those, like Lombardo Toledano, seem to have remained willfully blind to the sea of change taking place around them. Thus, just as the Left had swum with the tide a de cade before—at a time when the depression had struck and, soon, Cárdenas would wrest power from Calles—so, in the early 1940s, did the Right find the tide of history flowing in their favor.
A third calculus of change involves people, or personnel. Shifts in ruling elites indicate change and are a means whereby change is brought about. The most obvious concerns the presidency: the transition from Cárdenas to Avila Camacho (and the rapid collapse of Francico Múgica's presidential candidacy) clearly signaled both a shift to the center-right and ensured that the shift would likely continue through the following sexenio. Avila Camacho—said to be "about as colourful as a slab of halibut"—was a known centrist, a revolutionary insider who had patiently worked his way up through the ranks of the military, relatively untouched by conspicuous success or scandal. He came from a respectable poblano family; like many revolutionary leaders he had a devout mother and a devout wife and, of course, he had a flamboyant older brother, Maximino, known for his outspoken right-wing views, lavish lifestyle, and visceral hostility to the revolutionary Left, notably Lombardo. As state caciques, the Avila Camachos had successfully combated the CTM while promoting their own brand of patriotic poblano machine politics.
The first Avila Camacho cabinet displayed a clear shift to the right. Maximino was not (yet) included, but the new president took steps to balance left and right, Cardenista loyalists (like García Téllez) and allies of right-wing bosses like Portes Gil and Abelardo Rodríguez (such as Rodríguez's erstwhile secretary and biographer, Francisco Gaxiola, who became Secretary of the Economy). There was talk of Rodríguez himself—the preeminent "revolutionary" impresario—also becoming a minister, but he was too busy making money and preferred to pull strings behind the scenes. Another rumored cabinet appointment was that of Luis Cabrera, the old organic intellectual of Carrancismo, by now an acerbic critic of Cardenismo and Communism and, as it happened, a fellow poblano who had tutored the Avila Camacho kids. Not coincidentally, the old jefe máximo himself, Plutarco Elías Calles, soon returned from his four-year exile in the United States to effect a grudging reconciliation with Cárdenas.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from DICTABLANDA by PAUL GILLINGHAM, BENJAMIN T. SMITH. Copyright © 2014 Duke University Press. Excerpted by permission of Duke University Press.
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