Re-cinema: Hauntology of 1968 Samuel Steinberg (bio) On 2 October 1968, only ten days before Mexico City was to host the Summer Olympics, military and paramilitary forces opened fire on several thousand participants in the Mexican student-popular movement assembled at the Nonoalco-Tlatelolco apartments, killing a still-uncounted number of people. Because the movement did not fizzle out—or, more cynically, because it did not live long enough to betray itself—2 October 1968 marks both a tragic act of state-sponsored terror and a moment of unrealized possibility for the birth of a new world. This possibility lives on in the refusal to mourn in advance of the official admission of what happened, in advance of the tallying of the dead. From the very beginning of his 1991 memoir on 1968, the activist and detective novelist Paco Ignacio Taibo II intimates that such a settling of accounts forms the both impossible and necessary demand that organizes the legacy of 1968. Early in the memoir, Taibo offers a list of questions regarding the historical record, a list that concerns not merely discrepancies of fact, but the powerful irruption of the very secret that the narration of 1968 has been unable to disclose. Taibo writes, “Where did they throw our dead? Where did they toss our dead? Where, for fuck’s sake, did they throw our dead?”1 Here Taibo refers to the material body of the movement’s spirit, gone missing in some hidden crypt (in the ocean’s depths, it is sometimes said), another secret archive yet to be divulged. The desire for such (impossible) disclosure organizes the duration of the movement, the persistence of its specters. Indeed, [End Page 3] toward the end of the memoir, in a final chapter “In Which We Return to the Idea of Ghosts and Their Persistence in Time,” Taibo speaks of 1968’s peculiar, unexpected duration—how 123 days of summertime rebellion became the model for “popular resistance” for more than twenty years.2 For, even so many years later, in the now of Taibo’s narration, the remaining militants of 1968 continue to see one another in encounters that sometimes inspire hope and sometimes recall defeat. Thus Taibo concludes the memoir: But then there are days when I see myself and don’t recognize myself. Bad times, when the night prolongs a rainy day, when sleep won’t come, and I wrestle vainly with the computer keyboard. I realize then that we seem doomed to be ghosts of ’68. Well, what’s so bad about that? I ask myself: better to be Draculas of resistance than PRI-ist monsters of Frankenstein. And then the keys produce graceless sparks, weak flares, memories that are sometimes painful but most of the time raise a slight smile; and I long for that old spirit of laughter; I mourn, growing fearful of the dark, for an intensity now lost, for that feeling of immortality, for that other me of that never-ending year.3 Taibo wishes to be a ghost, a specter, but also a Count Dracula: undead, immortal, lost in the interminability of a year. But what of those Frankenstein’s monsters? What of the monstrous creations of the mad scientists (or technocrats) against whom, according to Taibo, the interminability of the year must be protected? In other words, what is the end of this duration against which Taibo—in 1991—is at pains to protect the legacy of 1968? Until the late 1980s, Tlatelolco and 1968 had been represented almost exclusively through photojournalism and journalistic or testimonial writing.4 With the production of Rojo amanecer (Red Dawn) in 1989, Jorge Fons’s low-budget, independently produced, and once-banned fictionalized reenactment of the massacre, the representation of Tlatelolco gives way to moving images.5 For readers unfamiliar with the work, Fons’s film takes place entirely within the walls of the Chihuahua building of the Tlatelolco apartments, which faces the Plaza de las Tres Culturas (Plaza of the Three Cultures). It “recounts” the story of 2 October from one morning to the next, as lived by a middle-class family. Apart from the two teenage sons, university students who are active...
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