Like all of Latin America, Mexico after independence in 1821

"Like all of Latin America, Mexico after independence in 1821 turned its back on a triple heritage: on the Spanish heritage, because we were newly liberated colonies, and on our Indian and black heritages, because we considered them backward and barbaric. We looked towards France, England and the U.S., to become progressive democratic republics." – Carlos Fuentes

Listen well, O keepers of memory, for Carlos Fuentes, the great chronicler of Mexico’s soul, speaks here not as a critic alone, but as a prophet mourning what was forgotten. His words are filled with sorrow and insight, for they reveal a deep wound — the fracture of a people divided from their own heritage. In this reflection, Fuentes lays bare the tragedy of post-independence Mexico, and indeed all of Latin America: that in casting off their colonial masters, they also cast off their own identity. In the rush to appear “modern” and “civilized,” they turned away from the living roots that gave them strength. His lament is not only for what was lost, but for what must be remembered.

The meaning of Fuentes’ words lies in the understanding that a nation’s soul is made from the fusion of its histories — not only its triumphs, but its wounds. After independence in 1821, Mexico stood free in name, yet uncertain of itself. The chains of Spain were broken, but the shadow of Spain remained in the mind. The newly independent elites, eager to distance themselves from the old empire, rejected the Spanish heritage, seeing it as the symbol of oppression. Yet, in doing so, they forgot that this heritage also carried art, language, and law — the instruments through which their culture had been expressed. They were like children renouncing a parent, gaining freedom but losing understanding.

Fuentes then speaks of the deeper tragedy: the denial of Indigenous and African roots, dismissed as “backward and barbaric.” In their zeal to imitate Europe and the United States, the new republics abandoned their native heart. The descendants of the Aztecs, the Mayas, and the Africans who had built and bled for the land were pushed aside, their wisdom scorned. Yet it was they who had tilled the soil, sung the songs, and preserved the sacred memory of the earth. This, Fuentes suggests, was a blindness born of pride — the belief that progress could only come by imitation, not creation. And in that imitation, the spirit of Latin America grew divided against itself.

The origin of this reflection is found in Fuentes’ lifelong effort to reconcile the contradictions of Mexican identity. Born of European and Indigenous descent, he understood that the true power of Mexico — and of all Latin America — lies in its mestizaje, its blending of worlds. The struggle for self-definition did not end with the war for independence; it began there. As the new nations looked outward — to France for culture, England for commerce, and the United States for democracy — they forgot to look inward, where their own stories, myths, and colors waited to be reawakened. Fuentes’ words, therefore, are not merely historical; they are spiritual. They call upon his people to reclaim the fullness of who they are — not fragments of borrowed civilizations, but heirs to a triple heritage that is both ancient and eternal.

Consider, as a mirror to his teaching, the life of Benito Juárez, the Indigenous president of Mexico. Born in poverty, speaking only Zapotec as a child, Juárez rose to become the embodiment of resilience. Yet even his era, which fought for reform and modernization, still measured progress through the lens of Europe. He stood as a bridge between worlds — the Indian shepherd turned statesman — but even he struggled against the deep-rooted belief that civilization must mean imitation. Fuentes, looking back, honors Juárez not for his westernization, but for his perseverance — the reminder that modernity without memory is emptiness, and that progress must grow from one’s own soil, not another’s shadow.

Fuentes’ words also speak beyond Mexico — to every nation that has sought to erase its roots to seem more acceptable to the world. The “triple heritage” he names — Spanish, Indigenous, and African — is not a burden to be shed, but a crown to be worn. In unity lies strength; in denial, decay. A people who forget their origins become ghosts, forever chasing foreign approval. But those who remember, who weave their past into their present, become eternal. For civilization is not imitation, but creation — and no creation can live without the breath of its ancestors.

Thus, the lesson of Carlos Fuentes resounds like an ancient drum: a nation must embrace all of itself, or it will never truly be free. Independence is not the casting off of others, but the reconciliation of all that one is. The Indian, the Spaniard, the African — all live within the soul of Mexico, within the blood of Latin America. To reject any part is to wound the whole. The path forward, then, is not to look only to foreign powers for models of progress, but to look inward, to the living wellspring of one’s own heritage.

So, O listener, take this truth as a guiding star: you cannot build the future by denying your past. The true mark of progress is not imitation but integration — the ability to honor all that has made you, even the parts history taught you to forget. For as Fuentes reminds us, greatness is not found in turning your back on your roots, but in standing tall upon them, seeing clearly at last who you are and what you were always meant to become.