North America: the cage of the Mexican economy

North America: the cage of the Mexican economy

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero 

Why can't Mexico get off the American train? The favorite narrative of Mexican nationalism is as predictable as it is harmful.

Every time tensions with Washington escalate, the inner circle of invisible power—those corporate and political elites who operate to maintain Mexico as a modern version of the Habsburg Model—pulls out the worn-out script of diversification.

They tell us, with a flippancy bordering on irresponsibility, that the solution is to look toward Beijing or Moscow; that, supposedly being one of the world's leading economies, we possess the strength to emancipate ourselves from the American production chain and access the global market autonomously.

It's madness.

A populist fantasy designed for domestic consumption that clashes head-on with the country's arithmetic and social reality.

If Mexico truly possessed that economic capacity and structural strength, it wouldn't exhibit the glaring inequalities that fracture the country, nor would it depend on the systematic expulsion of its own people to keep domestic consumption afloat.

The truth is harsher and less glamorous: Mexico has voluntarily chained itself to the United States, and today, it is the only path left to avoid collapse.

It is necessary to scrutinize the figures of self-deception with objective data.

The myth of self-sufficiency crumbles when one observes the phenomenon of migration and its real impact.

It is true that demagogues on both sides of the border often distort the variables: there are not 60 million undocumented immigrants in the United States; the total population of Mexican origin is around 38 million, of whom approximately 5 million lack legal status.

However, reducing the problem to a discussion of visas is to ignore the depth of the tragedy.

The real tragedy is not the legal status in the north, but the economic prostration in the south. Remittances are not a macroeconomic achievement to boast about on official platforms; they are the barometer of the Mexican state's failure. In rural communities across the vast majority of the country's states, dependence is absolute: in the most vulnerable segments of the rural population, practically one in three households survives thanks to the dollars earned in the fields of California, the kitchens of New York, or the construction industry in Texas.

The Mexican economic model functions, in essence, like a gigantic Porfirian-era hacienda for human exports.

The inner circle of power prefers to maintain this status quo because migration acts as the great social safety valve.

It allows for the merciless exploitation of the indigenous and mestizo population, denying them decent wages, security, and local opportunities, knowing that the surplus labor will ultimately finance social peace from abroad.

Remittances are, paradoxically, the subsidy that workers in the U.S. pay to the Mexican elite so that nothing changes.

It is the perfect mechanism for perpetuating inequality without triggering a revolution.

To think that China or Russia will replace this symbiosis is to misunderstand how geography and the global economy work.

Mexico is not an autonomous middle power; it is a critical, but subordinate, link in the North American market.

Eighty percent of its exports go north.

Its infrastructure, value chains, and legal treaties are all intertwined with the North American ecosystem.

Flirting with extra-hemispheric autocratic powers is not a strategy; it is geopolitical suicide that Washington will not tolerate and that the markets will punish immediately.

The alternative to deep integration is not sovereignty; it is chaos: a genuinely closed border and a massive return of capital and people.

Without the safety valve of migration and with stagnant binational trade, the Mexican social fabric would tear apart in a matter of weeks.

That void wouldn't be filled by the State; it would be filled by drug trafficking and organized crime, which already control entire fiefdoms of the national territory.

We would go from being an integrated economy to a large-scale failed state, a hacienda set ablaze by its own demons.

Robert Pastor was right, and it's time for the Mexican inner circle to accept it without the national complexes of the 19th century: Mexico's future lies not in utopian emancipation, but in the acceleration and democratization of North American integration.

It is necessary to move from maquiladoras and the export of cheap labor to a true economic community with clear rules, social cohesion funds that close infrastructure gaps, and realistic binational migration policies.

Mexico will not find its salvation in the Silk Road nor in the delusions of grandeur of a paper sovereignty.

Our destiny is inextricably tied to the north. To deny this is not patriotism; it is complicity with backwardness.

The great mistake of the Salinas technocracy was assuming that the success of the first Mexico would automatically pull the second along. It didn't.

North American subsidies (via remittances and export demand) are the only thing preventing internal inequality from triggering a violent social explosion.

Mexico is condemned to North American integration because geography is destiny.

Any attempt at emancipation toward Eurasian powers is not sovereignty; it is a discursive charade to keep the country's radical base happy while, behind the scenes, trade agreements with Washington continue to be signed.

The American train is the only one that passes through our station; getting off it is not an option, it is the abyss.

While the ideologues of the so-called Fourth Transformation theorize in universities about the discovery of China, joining the BRICS, and a budding romance with the Russia-Beijing axis, the real economy reminds us that Mexico has no room to maneuver.

It's not a question of sovereignty; it's a condition of strict and absolute dependence.

Data from the Bank of Mexico dismantles any narrative of diversification.

At the end of last year, Mexican exports reached a record high, but 83% of those shipments had a single destination: the United States.

To pretend that Mexico can flirt with a geopolitical alliance with China while ignoring the USMCA is to misunderstand the basic rules of global trade. If the Asian Dragon has any place in the Mexican value chain, it will only be under the strict rules of origin dictated by Washington.

Anything else is just rhetoric for the consumption of the party faithful.

In the classic Arabian tale "The Tale of the Two Who Dreamed" from One Thousand and One Nights, a man travels to distant lands in search of treasure, only to discover that the wealth was always buried in his own backyard.

Mexican populist progressivism makes the same mistake, but in reverse: it seeks a utopia of development in China's totalitarian state, when the reality of our survival is knocking on the door of our northern neighbor.

The true engine of social stability in Mexico is not government assistance programs, but the small, everyday money that sustains the fabric of the most forgotten communities.

The flow of remittances is the true buffer against poverty, directly supporting one in three households in the country.

If the Donald Trump administration were to carry out its threats, the socioeconomic collapse of the states with the longest history of emigration would be unprecedented.

The dilemma of Mexican foreign policy allows for neither ambiguity nor calculated silence.

Continuing to fuel the falsehood of populist sovereignty, while drug trafficking and institutional corruption spread unchecked, is playing with fire.

Neither China, nor Russia, nor the BRICS have sent a single screw to turn Mexico into the Ukraine of North America.

Alignment with North America is not a moral capitulation; it is the only viable path to guarantee economic viability and improve the social conditions of the population.

This disconnect between aspirations for self-sufficiency and productive reality is also evident at the local level.

In the state of Puebla—home to the Puebla Group—for example, institutional efforts to boost competitiveness, such as the development of the new CU2 complex at the Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla (BUAP), focused on engineering and exact sciences, the development of the Olinea vehicle, and the Ciudad Audi automotive cluster, illustrate a profound structural challenge.

While these initiatives are born with the legitimate purpose of spurring innovation, in practice they face serious implementation difficulties, plagued by bureaucratic problems, a lack of effective connection with the formal labor market, and accusations of patronage that limit their real social impact.

In contrast to the rigorous industrial and educational planning that characterizes Asian powers, local projects in Mexico often lack the ecosystem of legal certainty and transparency necessary to increase regional productivity.

Would the Beijing politburo allow such a waste of resources and talent on its own soil? Of course not.

The only thing that saves Mexico from its tremendous planned inefficiency is the United States.

Economic vulnerability is exacerbated by the imminent review of the USMCA.

This process will not be a mere formality; Washington is coming to the negotiating table with a markedly protectionist stance, demanding stricter labor oversight mechanisms, even more restrictive industrial rules of origin, and review clauses that reduce long-term certainty for investments.

For Mexico, any neglect at this negotiating table or a potential collapse of the trade agreement would imply a paralysis in the balance of payments that the formal economy could not withstand for more than a year.

Mexico finds itself at a crossroads where economic dependence on the United States is not an ideological choice, but a condition of survival imposed by the very realities of its geography, economy, and social stability.

The key to understanding this situation can be simplified with a simple analogy, like that of the apples, sticks, and balls, which brutally reveals the vulnerabilities we face.

Imagine that Mexico produces ten apples to sell on the global market.

The reality is that eight of those apples are consumed by our neighbor to the north, the United States.

The other two are distributed among Europe, Latin America, and other countries.

China barely buys a bite of one apple.

This means that if the United States decides to close the door or impose high tariffs on our exports, Mexico will be left with eight apples rotting in its yard, without a nearby buyer or enough money to absorb all of our production.

China, for its part, won't cross the Pacific Ocean to buy those apples, since it produces its own cheaper fruit and has a domestic market that satisfies its needs.

The Mexican economy is closely linked to that of its northern neighbor, and this dependence isn't a matter of patriotism, but of economic logic: no one else has the proximity, the size, or the purchasing power to sustain our production.

The second element of this relationship is the support that props up our budget.

In a rural community, the table that represents the economy of many families in Guerrero, Oaxaca, or Michoacán is held up by three pillars: what they grow, government social programs, and remittances sent from the United States.

The reality is that if remittance income is eliminated, social stability collapses, because that money is crucial for people to be able to eat, pay for medicine, or maintain their homes.

Social programs, while valuable, are not enough to cover all basic needs.

Most of the country's income comes from the wages of those who work in the United States.

Without that source, millions would fall into abject poverty within weeks.

The third element is the network of organized crime, which controls a large part of Mexican territory.

The legal economy, with its factories and maquiladoras (assembly plants), can only be sustained if the United States keeps its market open, if the factories continue operating, and if remittances arrive without interruption.

If the U.S. economy shuts down, those factories close, and unemployed young people become easy prey for drug trafficking, which offers a quick and dangerous escape.

This dependence creates a vacuum that organized crime is ready to fill, delivering the country into chaos and lawlessness.

Photo EFE

These three elements demonstrate that Mexico's economy is in a kind of cage from which it cannot escape without facing almost certain collapse.

The United States economy is about twenty times larger than Mexico's, and in a scenario of rupture, Mexico could not sustain itself on its own.

China, which has a huge trade surplus with Mexico, will not act as a lifeline; its interest is in selling, not subsidizing.

The border with the United States, which sees over two billion dollars in daily trade, would be a wall that would halt all of Mexico's productive capacity.

The idea of ​​absolute sovereignty, without integration with North America, is a dangerous illusion.

Mexico is an appendage of the United States; for our country, attempting to separate would be tantamount to death.

The Messiah, the Bishops, and the Caesar

 The Messiah, the Bishops, and the Caesar

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero

The current crisis of governance in Mexico has ceased to be a matter of domestic politics and has become the epicenter of a geopolitical reconfiguration.

The State has exhausted its traditional mechanisms of mediation and is heading toward forced integration under Washington's aegis.

The Messiah narrative, embodied in the figure of Andrés Manuel López Obrador, represents the last gasp of a sovereignty that, paradoxically, has deepened the structural ties between political power and organized crime.

Like its predecessors, the current leadership has been unable to sever the umbilical cord with the powers that be, allowing the metastasis of drug trafficking to reach high levels of territorial control.

The Catholic Church has not been a mere spectator, but a historical intermediary that has skillfully woven networks of social containment where the State has deserted.

However, this mediation has crossed the line from pastoral care to organic complicity.

The infiltration of drug trafficking into ecclesiastical structures has created a social fabric where the sacred and the profane are blurred to legitimize the criminal order.

This symbiosis has failed in its primary objective of maintaining social peace, leaving a void that can only be filled by a larger external force.

The US presidential power, after years of observing the decline of its neighbor, seems ready to act according to a national security logic.

Friedman and Huntington had warned about the disruptive potential of an out-of-control Mexico.

Brzezinski's vision suffered from an alarming lack of perspective by underestimating Mexico's demographic and cultural power, focusing his attention on Arab fundamentalism while the real challenge was brewing in its own backyard.

Today, the rampant corruption and violence in Mexico represents a more existential threat to the United States than any insurgency in the Middle East, due to the porous nature of a border that no longer separates two nations, but rather two interconnected realities.

The outlook for Mexico points to a radical transformation: ceasing to be the American Sicily, an enclave of tolerated but contained illegality, and becoming the New Puerto Rico.

This process would not necessarily come about through a military invasion, but rather through a systemic intervention justified by the collapse of Mexican institutions and the pressure from the 50 million Mexicans residing in North America.

This demographic segment, weary of the ineffectiveness of governments in their country of origin, is beginning to look favorably upon an intervention by the Caesar that imposes the order that the Messiah and the Bishops could not.

Mexico's demographic capacity, far from being a barrier for Washington, becomes the social base that would legitimize a de facto external administration under the premise of regional survival.

The American war economy requires a minimum level of stability to guarantee its supply chains and nearshoring, which clashes head-on with the entropy generated by drug trafficking.

The failure of the social mediation of the Mexican Church and State opens the door to a technocratic and militarized protectorate.

Mexico faces the definitive loss of its autonomy in exchange for a peace imposed from abroad, marking the end of an era of pretense and the beginning of a new political geography where sovereignty is a luxury that institutional failure can no longer afford.

The survival of transnational criminal organizations in the face of an imminent intervention by the American Caesar would depend on a radical transformation: from being a collection of violent fiefdoms to becoming a para-state actor with strategic utility.

If drug trafficking groups in Mexico were to seek independent survival in the face of forced integration, their only path would be to mutate into a counterintelligence and territorial control entity serving Washington's national security interests, emulating the pragmatism of the Sicilian Mafia during Operation Husky in 1943.

In the logic of power, narco-politicians are now toxic assets that justify foreign intervention.

By promoting the capture and extradition of these figures, criminal organizations would eliminate the pretext of a narco-state that the Capitol uses to invoke forceful measures.

This "offering" would allow these de facto groups to present themselves as the only interlocutors capable of pacifying the territory, replacing a civil bureaucracy that Washington already considers failed and deeply infiltrated.

Mexican drug trafficking should shift its business portfolio to align with the United States' existential priorities: fentanyl and Chinese influence.

Just as the Italian mafia guaranteed the security of ports in New York and facilitated landings in Sicily to counter the Axis powers, Mexican groups would have to unilaterally eradicate the production of fentanyl and chemical precursors from Asia.

By assuming the role of guardians of American public health and a barrier against Beijing's economic penetration in the Mexican Pacific, these organizations would transform from a "terrorist threat" into "irregular allies."

Controlling migration flows and monitoring the infiltration of agents from adversary countries at the border would become their new currency.

To avoid being devoured by the American military machine, these organizations would have to demonstrate that their total eradication would create a power vacuum that could only be filled by chaos or hostile foreign powers.

By presenting itself as a state-sponsored mafia that protects the interests of the USMCA and expels the influence of Arab and Chinese capital, Mexican drug trafficking could aspire to survive under a regime of conditional tolerance.

Intermarium of Silence

 Intermarium of Silence

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero

Jean Meyer writes about Andrea Ricardi's work in Confabulario of El Universal (May 3, 2026). The review of Pius XII and his role during the Holocaust, while attempting to nuance the image of the pontiff, fails to avoid oversimplifying a much more complex reality: the structural ambiguity and lack of a clear and consistent stance on the part of the Catholic High Hierarchy regarding totalitarian regimes. It even calls into question the vast body of Jewish historiography on the Holocaust, the German people, Eastern Europe, and the role of Catholic nationalism.

The historical trajectory of the Intermarium Project, which seeks to consolidate an anti-communist bloc and, in many cases, aligns with the interests of the Church, reveals that this ambiguity was not an isolated incident, but a deliberate strategy that has endured over time.

The Church, in its eagerness to maintain its power and authority, has shown itself willing to collaborate with or remain silent in the face of any power that is favorable to it, regardless of whether it comes from a Nazi state, a drug-trafficking state, a corrupt political boss, the Soviet Union, China, or other dictatorships. The Church's "ambiguity" is not a mistake, but a tactic that has facilitated its survival.

This attitude shows that the Church's true stance is not the defense of human rights, but the preservation of its own power structure.

The history of the Intermarium Project and of Catholic nationalism in general demonstrates its adaptation by evading the ethical and moral commitment that the religion itself preaches; it should come as no surprise that, ultimately, the Church has proven to be more loyal to its institutional interests than to the values ​​it claims to promote.

In this sense, the discussion surrounding Pius XII cannot be limited to his silence or isolated actions, but must be framed within a broader logic: that of an institution which, in its quest for survival, has often preferred ambiguity.

From the perspective of the work *Intermarium: Evangelio Anticomunista* (Intermarium: Anti-Communist Gospel), these discourses can be understood not as isolated accidents or prejudices, but as components of a power strategy that seeks to maintain a hegemonic order and resist changes that threaten its legitimacy.

Catholic-rooted anti-communism in Mexico, or in Latin America, can be considered a microphysics of power that operates at subconscious and symbolic levels, and which has a great potential for escalation if it is not confronted with a critical review of its roots and functions.

This structure and its organizational intent are key to understanding the dynamics of power and resistance that still dominate in these contexts today.

Anti-communism is a form of Judeophobia that operates on different levels: not only as an individual attitude, but also as a “structure of resistance” that reinforces an exclusionary identity.

In the Mexican context, this Judeophobia without Jews is a way to maintain a discourse of victimization and confrontation with an external or internal enemy presented as a “virus” that must be combated to preserve the purity and authority of traditional Catholic institutions.

This mechanism of institutional sacralization, which seeks to keep society in a state of dependence and obedience, also explains why in Mexico, as in other countries with a history of strong religious influence and authoritarianism, these narratives remain functional.

The strategy is not only about religion, but also about how these ideas are articulated to defend certain privileges and an order that, in reality, seeks to perpetuate itself by constructing enemies and delegitimizing questioning.

The Catholic Church can generate a more progressive Vatican Council III than the previous one, but the task is to put theory into practice and end the feudal practices and inertia of an authoritarian and, at times, totalitarian culture.

Political Science as Cosa Nostra

Political Science as Cosa Nostra

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero

Political science in Mexican public universities is not only at an existential crossroads; it inhabits a morgue of empty concepts. The spirit of Emilio Uranga, that philosopher of the Hyperion who dissected the ontology of the Mexican only to then surrender himself to the arms of absolute power, seems to have returned in a degraded and cynical version. Today, the university "intellectual" no longer seeks to explain the world, but rather, in an act of pure nihilism, decides to kill everything: the transition, democracy, and science, in order to make a final pact with the regime in power. The intellectual's suicide is not Socratic but Machiavellian.

This attitude, which some mistake for pragmatism, is in reality criminal cronyism. It is the literal application of Mario Puzo's maxim: when the law is an obstacle and institutions are empty shells, "it's better to have a godfather than a father." The political system, seen as a mafia of clans, has infiltrated academia, transforming the political scientist into a consigliere whose sole function is to grease the wheels of external power into university autonomy. It is not revenge against neoliberalism; it is the natural reaction of someone who, seeing that their library no longer serves to wield influence, decides to burn it down to heat the coffee of the new despot.

To rescue the public university from its current drift toward insignificance, it is imperative to transmute the discipline: to move from the exegesis of complaint to the engineering of solutions. In a Mexico where democratic indicators are languishing and the State is fragmenting in the face of disorder, the ability to solve complex technical problems is the only real shield against servitude.
The rescue plan must be based on data literacy and a humanist technocracy. The political scientist of the future cannot be a mere spectator at book fairs or an identity manager who negotiates their entry into government as an infiltrator; they must be an architect of evidence-based public policies. The country doesn't need more rhetoric about "the people" while water stress collapses cities or organized crime audits the economy.
We need professionals capable of handling econometric models, understanding critical infrastructure, and auditing the algorithms that currently govern popular will.
The university must banish the academic kitsch that celebrates mediocrity under the guise of
"social conscience." A return to the rigor of the applied sciences in the social sphere is fundamental, where the study of democracy is complemented by cybersecurity, supply chain logistics, and environmental impact assessment. Institutional recovery demands that internal administration cease to be a public relations agency or a prize for the "godfather" of the moment, and instead become a highly complex laboratory.
Each seminar on Uranga's theory of power must be balanced with a workshop on big data analysis. Only in this way will the graduate cease to be the "intellectual gardener" of the elites—or the government informant—and become the technician who diagnoses and repairs the fractures of the State. True university autonomy is not defended with slogans sold to the highest bidder under the sophistry of political science for the grassroots, but with the technical excellence that makes the professional indispensable for the functioning of the country.

The attitude of the intellectual who colludes with power to infiltrate his own house—the university—is a symptom of a larger pathology: the belief that politics is merely a succession of betrayals and patronage. This view, inherited from a misunderstood realism, is what has killed faith in the democratic transition in Mexico. If the political scientist surrenders to Puzo's logic, he admits that science is dead and only the court remains.

If the political scientist educated in public schools does not learn to master the tools of technological modernity, the system will devour him without remorse, or worse, turn him into another cog in the machine of corruption. The salvation of the Mexican public university lies in its capacity to produce minds that not only understand the world but also possess the surgical skill to transform it in the face of the blindness of populism and the voraciousness of disorder. Political science must cease to be the study of "who owes whom." to become the design of "how we make this work."

Mexico no longer has room for "Urangas" who justify authoritarianism out of resentment, nor for "Godfathers" who trade scholarships for loyalties. We need a political science that is, above all, a technical defense of freedom.

Political science is currently experiencing its darkest hour, the victim of an intellectual suicide perpetrated by those who, in the name of a supposed popular exceptionalism, have decided to dismantle the ladder of abstraction in order to sink into the mire of sentimentalism. The Mexican case is the most alarming symptom of this regression: what some casually call the political science of the downtrodden is nothing more than the capitulation of rigor to the sultanate. Sartori warned that when language is corrupted, politics is degraded; today we see how systemic analysis is replaced by an outdated liberation theology that, under a Marxist-Maoist veneer and a sloganistic anti-Zionism, ends up legitimizing the most archaic structure of power: the patrimonial system of local bosses.

This shift toward illiberal populism is not progress, but a return to the Americanized Sicily, that mafia republic where the law is not a general and abstract norm, but a fickle pact between factions and powerful interests. By embracing the idea that deprivation exempts one from modernity, the regime's intellectuals have created a perfect alibi for authoritarianism. The argument of poverty becomes the foundation of voluntary servitude, where the citizen is reduced to a corporate client and the ruler to a sultan who despises political science because technical truth hinders his arbitrary will. The political science of the downtrodden is, in reality, a political science for the elite, since it grants the populist elite the divine right to govern without checks and balances, under the pretext of a historical debt that is never settled, only managed.

The disdain for technocracy and institutional liberalism has left the State defenseless against Hobbesian disorder. While the university classroom is lost, the narco-state and institutional failures deepen, precisely because the engineering of solutions has been abandoned. However, the most compelling evidence against this exceptionalism of poverty lies not in treaties, but at the border. The millions of Mexicans who cross into the United States or Canada do not change their human essence; they change their incentive system. It is not culture that condemns Mexico, but the extractive institutions that populists today defend as sovereignty. The Mexican who prospers in the north demonstrates that the problem is not our inability to be modern, but an elite that prefers to govern a poor sultanate rather than a republic of free citizens. Political science must recover its surgical vocation and abandon the exegesis of complaints. If we are unable to transmute resentment into technical excellence, we will remain trapped in this academic simulation, watching the country crumble while street prophets celebrate the ruins in the name of the people. True autonomy and the only shield against the mafia republic lie in the rigor that populism so fears.

A Beetle in Teotihuacan

 A Beetle in Teotihuacan

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero

The echo of the explosions at the Pyramid of the Moon not only shattered the age-old silence of the City of the Gods, but also definitively tore away the veil of ideological innocence that Mexico believed it possessed by right. The incident, perpetrated by a lone wolf, is presented to the public as the eruption of a narcissistic nihilism that, under the veneer of outdated mysticism, carried out a blood ritual in the heart of Mexico's indigenous heritage. A young man from Morelos, trapped in a profound alienation, decided to inhabit the body of a Nordic warrior to purge his resentments against modernity.

As analyst Carlos Ramírez has aptly pointed out, this event represents the irruption of far-right terrorism at a time when the struggle for the indigenous past has become the center of the national discourse. It is paradoxical that, while the presidency asserts sovereignty against the old Spanish empire, a lone wolf decides to desecrate the sacrificial grounds to pay tribute to a foreign cosmogony. Jasso, who signed his literary ravings as Vilhjálmur M. Marsson, was a collector of perverted myths for a worldview where politics is replaced by biological destiny and the mysticism of blood. Jasso's profile evokes the Thule Society, that esoteric organization that served as the ideological foundation for National Socialism. Like the members of that shadowy circle, Jasso fed on an identity-based desperation that sought redemption in runes and an imagined intellectual superiority. It is no coincidence that his motivations bear the shadow of figures like Heinrich Himmler and Alfred Rosenberg, architects of a racial religion that despised Christian humanism in favor of a bellicose paganism. Rosenberg argued for the need to replace old truths with a faith in blood, an idea that Jasso transferred to the Avenue of the Dead by identifying with the figure of Thor, the hammer of the gods, whose cinematic aesthetic he edited to feed his own superhuman image.

The date of the attack, coinciding with the anniversary of Adolf Hitler's birth and the Columbine massacre, confirms that Jasso operated according to a ritual calendar logic. For him, Teotihuacan was the perfect power node, a point of telluric energy similar to those described by François Ribadeau Dumas and Hans S. Bauer in their treatises on occultism and secret societies. Jasso saw himself as an initiate, a link in the chain of a spiritual elite that included Freemasonry, which he never truly understood. It is vital to clarify that Freemasonry, with its imperative of universal brotherhood and philanthropy, is the antithesis of nihilistic hatred. However, his rhetoric mixed Jewish-Masonic conspiracy theories with Thule Mysticism, an intellectual confusion that Oswald Spengler had already warned about in his work on the decline of the West when speaking of the final phase of civilizations, where rational thought is devoured by a new, magical, and violent religiosity.

This “spiritualism,” which some anthropologists have linked to Mexicanist movements or followers of national transformation, took a dark turn in Jasso’s work. Unlike the mysticism of Antonio Velasco Piña or the narrative of Patricia Zarco in "El séptimo cadete", which seek a spiritual reconnection with Mexican roots, Jasso filtered Teotihuacan archaeology through the German Black Forest and Goethe’s demon. His attacks directed at Canadian and American tourists demonstrate that his racism was not a loyalty to Hispanic culture, but rather a hatred of the liberal order of the North, a declaration of war by a “Vengeful Mars” against the materialism he considered decadent.

Mexico must become aware of the constant reality where young people, outside the productive system but imbued with an exclusive, esoteric online narrative, can become executors of imported ideological terrorism. The warning has been issued at the top of the pyramid: violence is no longer solely the domain of the cartels, which also employ youth armies, but has found a new breeding ground in the mystique of resentment. The lone wolf died believing the gods had chosen him, leaving behind the trail of a .38 caliber revolver and a historical void of attention. Faced with a lack of prospects and a future in a productive system that provides meaning, Mexican youth find in the mystique of hatred a territory where they can be "someone." In the eternal City of the Dead, an ideological mindset has crashed against the sacred past, reminding us that nihilism, when cloaked in myth, is the deepest threat to the soul of the nation.

Evangelical Geopolitics

 Evangelical Geopolitics

Diego Martín Velázquez Caballero

The influence of messianic and dispensationalist perspectives on Donald Trump's politics has opened a space for deep reflection on its geopolitical implications, particularly in relation to countries like Mexico. Several scholars, including Carlos Garma, Elio Masferrer, Samuel Schmidt, Leopoldo Cervantes Ruiz, and Carlos Martínez García, agree that this vision, driven by Trumpism, goes beyond the merely religious. They suggest that it is a geopolitical strategy with eschatological overtones, where the United States, under a biblical interpretation, assumes the role of a divine instrument in a conflict related to Jerusalem and the Middle East, oriented toward the fulfillment of a supposed divine plan for the end times. While they criticize the conservative and messianic character of this school of thought, their approaches differ when analyzing the political, religious, and geopolitical aspects involved.

This current of thought is characterized by linking biblical narratives with global events, especially in the Middle East. From this eschatological perspective, the struggle for territories and communities takes on the character of a divine conflict. Trump's alliance with evangelical sectors that hold these interpretations has given rise to a foreign policy imbued with a transcendental purpose. The United States, under this lens, ceases to be perceived solely as an actor motivated by economic or strategic interests, becoming instead a conduit for the materialization of a messianic plan that transcends human boundaries and delves into the mysteries of the apocalypse.

For Mexico, this scenario carries significant implications due to its geographical proximity to the United States, a nation that these sectors consider key in the eschatological narrative of the "people of God." Within this interpretive framework, Mexico may need to rethink its role vis-à-vis a neighbor embroiled in an apocalyptic conflict centered in the Middle East. In programs like Sacred and Profane, Bernardo Barranco has delved into the perspectives of Zionist Christianity, analyzing how messianic and dispensationalist currents position Israel as the epicenter for the fulfillment of divine designs. According to this view, U.S. actions, guided by such principles, surpass the classic expectations of imperialism, resulting in an interventionism endowed with sacred justifications. Thus, it is understood that they not only seek to preserve material interests, but also to participate directly in a spiritual war where the fate of the world, and even that of Mexico, is at stake.

For Mexican evangelicals who have given their political support to Morena, the panorama is even more complex. Their support for a government that often criticizes religious influence in decision-making could conflict with the prevailing eschatological narrative among other evangelical sectors aligned with Trumpism. This end-of-the-world narrative, which gives centrality to the struggle for Jerusalem and the Middle East within a global messianic framework, places Mexico before a potential life-or-death dilemma. The country could be drawn into a confrontation with both political and spiritual implications. For these believers, the struggle between continuing to support causes aligned with the messianic interests of the United States or pursuing a more independent political agenda presents difficult dilemmas and profound implications for national identity.

This phenomenon far surpasses reductionist explanations that confine it solely to the framework of traditional imperialism. Instead, it can be interpreted as a form of divine intervention, according to its followers, where nations and peoples become key players in an apocalyptic drama. The penetration of messianic evangelism into the international political arena, catalyzed by dispensationalist interpretations promoted during the Trump administration, could be marking a shift for Mexico in its relationship with global dynamics. The struggle for Jerusalem and the defense of Israel through an apocalyptic lens suggest that these events are perceived as a prelude to the end times. As a result, Mexico faces the dilemma of deciding what role it will play in a narrative that simultaneously combines celestial and earthly elements. The story is yet to be written, but what is evident is that the evangelical geopolitics that is taking shape around Trumpism constitutes a profound challenge that transcends the political and requires introspection about Mexico's place within this complex global narrative.