Author: Rita Pomade, Word Count: 1,989
Featured in Midsummer Archaeological Story Moot: Live Stream – Summer 2026
On August 3, 1968, one day after a massive student demonstration at the University of Mexico, I’m invited to a private showing of a documentary filmed during a student protest several years earlier. The government censored the film, so my friend Andrea, a dancer, has invited Raul, the filmmaker, to show the film in her dance studio.
Colette, a young French woman, arrives with her one-month-old baby, and sits off to the side nursing the child. Andrea, in the kitchen, brews coffee to warm her guests on this rain-chilled evening. Pedro arrives with flowers, and hands them to his son, three-year-old Miguel.
“Give these to Andrea,” he says. Miguel heads toward the kitchen, returns having lost his way, and Pedro goes with him.
An older, elegant looking woman, whose projector is being used for the evening, makes an announcement:
“Are there any Americans here? There’s a film that needs to be dubbed in
English, but with no accents.” I think about my New York accent and wonder if it’s acceptable. I practice a bit of diction in my head. I could use the money. A couple arrive late, having waited for their kids to fall asleep before coming, and
apologize to Andrea.
I’ve brought Rachel, a fifteen-year-old girl visiting me from the States. Her parents are friends of mine who think a few weeks in another culture would be stimulating and enlightening for their daughter. I think the film will interest her, and I’m pleased she’s old enough to come with me.
“What’s the film about?” Rachel asks.
“All Men are Brothers,” I say. “That’s the title. It’s about a student demonstration
several years back.”
“The same thing as now,” she says.
I nod my agreement.
It’s time for the film to begin, and the guests settle in. I relax, my back against the wall, and watch the title sequence— young faces, full of excitement, holding signs and moving between and into the credits. The image suddenly flickers, and the projector crashes onto the floor turning the room pitch-black. Police, I think, knowing we’re seeing the film illegally.
Paralysis grips my limbs. I hear bodies scrambling in the dark, but I can’t move. My raincoat is in front of me, and I force myself to reach for it. The movement breaks my fear, clearing my head. I crawl in the direction of the scuffling near the front door, as Colette dashes out, clutching her infant daughter to her chest. A male voice in the street shouts in Spanish,
“Come back, Frenchy.”
In the dim street light illuminating the room, I watch in horror as five strangers wrestle with our men. One of them grabs Raul who twists himself free. Two other attackers are near me. The first one is knocked down, and the second one loses a tooth.
“I’ll kill you,” he shouts at the man who has knocked out his tooth, then snarls, “hippie,” in a low voice, as he backs away. Our men manage to shove the thugs out, but the band of intruders won’t give up and pound furiously on the closed door.
A pistol goes off several times. Blanks, I think. It can’t be real. Later, a .38 bullet is found lodged in the door.
“No women in front,” one of the men shouts. I inch my way to the kitchen where the other women are gathered, and I’m relieved to find Rachel among them.
“Have the police been called?” someone asks. No one knows. “Those thugs are going to kick in the door.” We know she’s right, but none of us say anything.
I step onto the back patio and see Federico, a journalist I’d just met, holding a ladder.
“We’ve got to call the police,” he says. “I can’t find Andrea’s phone in the dark.” We place the ladder against the patio wall and Federico climbs.
“Senora,” he shouts to a woman on the other side of the wall. “Please, can we use your phone? We’re being attacked.”
The woman doesn’t respond. The full weight of how vulnerable we are sweeps over me like a rolling wave almost knocking me off my feet. Guilt and responsibility for the young girl I’ve brought tug at my heart. I have to do something… anything. I run back into the house.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say to the women in the kitchen. “We’ve a better chance of protecting ourselves from there.”
A steel staircase, narrow and circular, leads to an opening in the floor above through which only one person can pass at a time. It opens to Andrea’s bedroom, the spiral staircase her idea to give more space to the dance studio below.
The women accept my suggestion, and we mount the stairs. I look for a heavy object, spot a small radio on Andrea’s night table, and place it under my palm. I feel its contour for a comfortable hold, and then crouch near the opening in the floor. In my mind I crack skulls one by one knowing only one intruder can come through at a time. My anger is intense. And I already know I can kill if I have to.
***
I remember myself as a terrified child in search of refuge running through the streets.
Why I’m being chased, I don’t know. What makes one child a target and another child the bully?
Every day after school for four years, I run for my life. Then one day I don’t.
I spot four empty milk bottles on a neighbor’s porch. I grab one of the bottles, and turn towards my opponents, without fear for the first time in my life, exhilarated by my outrage. With one hand I break the glass bottle against a post leaving the jagged neck securely in my fist. Slowly, I move towards my enemies.
“Come on,” I hiss. I’ll kill all of you, one at a time.” I taste blood in my mouth, my right hand eager for contact with soft flesh. They back off. Six of them against one ten-year-old and they keep backing off.
“She’s crazy. Look at her eyes,” one of them says. “I always said she was crazy.” Still, they move back.
I rush forward with the bottle in my hand. “I’ll put this glass through your bellies,” I
shout.
They turn and run. I stand alone and watch. Only then do I learn that it’s not always the numbers of your enemy that can kill you, but also your fear.
***
Across the street from Andrea’s home, a middle-aged woman hangs out the second story window of a stucco house waving a gun. She shoots at one of our windows but misses, the bullet pinging off the outside wall.
“Turn off the light,” Miguel’s mother whispers. I crawl towards the wall, flip the switch, and drop to the floor, making sure the radio is nearby.
“Lie down,” I tell Rachel. “If a bullet comes through the window, it’ll pass over your head.” She slips down on the floor beside me. Moments later a bullet zings above us.
A blue police wagon pulls up to the door. I guess someone was able to phone after all. Maybe Colette when she ran with the baby.
Andrea opens the window and shouts to the police. “Those men have attacked us.” She points to the five men who have now crossed the street, and are standing in front of the house where the woman had fired at us.
The police don’t answer. An officer walks towards the house of our attackers. A small arrogant-looking man greets him at the gate. Later I learn the man is a lawyer, and the thugs are his sons. Beside him, the son who has lost his tooth continues to rage. The lawyer flaps his arms wildly in the air, and then lets them fall to his side. He has finished. The police move back into their wagon.
Below, the pounding continues on the door, but this time from the inside. The door’s stuck and won’t budge. We run downstairs to be with the men. One of them sticks his head out the window.
“Stop”, he shouts to the police. “There are women and children here. Please stay until they’re out the door.” The wheels on the police wagon start to move.
“Please,” he shouts again as the door bursts open. The police wagon rolls to a stop. The man turns to us.
“Go,” he shouts. “Get out. Go now because they won’t stay long.”
I grab Rachel’s hand and race out the door, feet flying down the cobblestone street. A block away is the house of Raul, the filmmaker. We pile in and collapse on the floor. The men soon arrive, but Pedro and Raul are missing, also Andrea.
“Where are they? I ask. “Went to press charges,” someone says.
***
“I don’t know,” I hear Claudia say into a phone. I’d hardly noticed her at the gathering, but now she’s in a phone conversation with her father while the rest of us sit dazed.
Shortly after, her father arrives. Friendly and at ease, he talks to Claudia. Their Spanish is fast, and I can’t grasp it.
“What are they saying?” I ask.
“Everything is OK,” a voice offers. “Andrea will collect for damages. Everything’s cool. The mayor and Claudia’s father are neighbours, friends.”
Everything is OK? The pieces don’t fit.
“The mayor’s a friend,” a Mexican has just said. But is he? Was he a friend yesterday? Last week? The film we never saw? Will he be a friend tomorrow? The mayor belongs to the PRI, a political party that has ruled Mexico since its
revolution through fraud, violence and strong-arm tactics. A wave of nausea comes over me, and I rush to the toilet. Bitter liquid erupts from my stomach. For the rest of that night, I retch. With every heave, I vomit my fury. I feel in my heart that the student movement will not end well because I wake up to the realization that Mexico is not a democracy.
***
Two months later, on October 2, 1968, I follow the flow of students to the Plaza of the Three Cultures where they have organized another peaceful protest. The scene is festive with couples making out, young men strumming guitars, and families using the event as an interesting outing. Someone grabs my arm from behind. I turn to see Federico, the journalist I had met at Andrea’s.
“It’s not safe here,” he whispers as he yanks me out of the crowd. Within seconds of our leaving, we hear gun shots and the rumbling of tanks. Next day I learn of the mass slaughter of hundreds in the square, their bodies tossed into garbage trucks and never found. There are no protests after that, but the crackdown continues. Halcones, a government-trained paramilitary group, go house to house in search of young students. For weeks, they walk the streets with their
walkie-talkies shaking down every person of student age. I don’t know the students who were murdered, but I have friends who are charged with instigating the protests, people who had the courage to speak out against the gratuitous violence and blatant injustice. They are tortured if native and deported if foreign. Overnight Mexico City transforms from a vital centre of cultural and artistic ferment to a city of empty, silent streets.
***
I went to Mexico as a naive American believing the country to be an open democratic society. I saw signs of a different reality, but I glossed over them. It wasn’t my country, and anyway, it wasn’t that bad—at least not for me—until I witnessed the horror of what an autocratic government is capable of. It opened my heart to people outside my small world, and my eyes to how quickly democracy can deteriorate through neglect and self-interest. I do not take it for granted. It’s a lesson I will never forget.
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