Enrique
Krauze

Political earthquakes, like real earthquakes, often come in pairs. Last month a special prosecutor indicted a former Mexican president for genocide -- and the case was dismissed the very next day. Even in Mexico, where we have plenty of experience with these phenomena, this was a double earthquake of the highest magnitude.

The case concerned the events of June 10, 1971, which I witnessed from the roof of a building where I had sought refuge with a friend. A mob of young men armed with kendo rods was marching along the wide road to the shout of ''Long live Che Guevara.'' It was obvious that they weren't students. They belonged to a paramilitary unit called the Falcons, trained by the government for the occasion. I watched as they fell on the peaceful crowd of student demonstrators, beating them and dragging them away. On the next street, they forced them with clubs and blows into private cars and ambulances. We could hear a firefight that lasted for several hours.

Although there were fewer killings that day than there were at Tlatelolco in 1968, Mexico's most notorious student massacre, in many ways it was a repeat performance: the government had violently suppressed students. President Luis Echeverría spoke that night on television, promising to open an investigation ''no matter who is found guilty.'' A few days later, he fired two officials and the promised inquiry was never begun. Years later, the weekly news magazine Proceso explained why: Mr. Echeverría had orchestrated the killings himself.

Viewed from a distance, the double earthquakes of 1968 and 1971 were the beginning of the end of the hegemony of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, known as the PRI. Founded in 1929, it was (and in some ways continues to be) more than a party: it is a political organization that offered money, positions, jobs and favors in exchange for what one critic called ''political obedience packages.''

Since the 1930's the party had linked itself to the principal organizations of workers, peasants and middle-class professionals. Federal, state and municipal elections were held punctually, but the PRI's machinery of propaganda, co-optation and fraud (and eventually repression) assured the party's permanent victory. At the top of the pyramid, the president ruled with absolute power, complete impunity and unrestricted access to public funds -- but only for six years, at the end of which he designated his successor, who in exchange granted him immunity for life.

Like the Soviet Communist Party, the ''Mexican political system'' (which was what this strange historical animal was called) also boasted a rich ideological arsenal: it sprang from a social revolution made ''by and for the people.'' The party proclaimed itself the heir of Emiliano Zapata and Pancho Villa. And its successes weren't negligible: it carried out a vast agrarian reform, created social security institutions, widened the educational net and fostered four decades of economic growth with political stability.

But after 1968 and 1971, the ''system'' -- essentially corrupt and corruptive -- began to collapse financially. It was then that a possible exit was glimpsed: why not try democracy?

In his 2000 presidential campaign, Vicente Fox shrewdly used the memory of the repressions of 1968 and 1971 and their aftermath, the so-called dirty war between the army and those students who became guerrillas as a result of the repression. The cycle of violence concluded at the end of the 1970's with an amnesty that was accepted by the remnants of the guerrilla force, except for the diehard groups that retreated to the mountains of Chiapas.

Mr. Fox promised to get to the bottom of the events of 1968, 1971 and the ''dirty war.'' After his victory, Mr. Fox was presented with two alternatives: establish a truth commission or name a special prosecutor. He chose the second option, for good reason. As shameful as it was, the cycle of Mexican violence wasn't at all comparable to the bloody toll of the military governments of Chile and Argentina, South Africa's apartheid regime, or the systematic killing of Indians in Guatemala. At the same time, it made sense to strengthen the judicial branch, whose fragile independence had begun to be consolidated during President Ernesto Zedillo's term in office.

After two and a half years, Ignacio Carrillo Prieto, Mexico's special prosecutor for state crimes during the dirty war, sought Mr. Echeverría's arrest on charges of allowing a squad of military-trained thugs to kill about 30 student demonstrators in 1971. The main charge was genocide. (Under existing laws, there was apparently no other way around the statute of limitations.) The next day, exercising his independent authority, a judge threw out the arrest warrant for those accused.

Mr. Carrillo Prieto says he intends to appeal the decision. If the case goes to the Supreme Court, it's unlikely that it would lead to the imprisonment of the former president, who in any case is a dead man walking on the lawns of his home; his repudiation by Mexican society has only become more emphatic with the disclosure of the truth.

Justice denied? Not exactly. Mexico has gained some things along the way: to begin with, the end of presidential immunity. If a former president is indicted, the possibility is established that the former president may be tried, too. The wide publicity that the events received (fruit of the freedom of expression that didn't exist in Mr. Echeverría's day) is another achievement. Anyone who wants to expand the investigation, write books, or make documentaries on the subject can now count on a rich store of information. And the judicial branch has been strengthened, something that is always of the greatest importance, but especially in the current political context, in which the legislative and executive branches still have to find ways to collaborate and respect each other.

But the PRI lives on, one might say. Well, yes and no. If by the PRI one means the old political system, then the reality is that central elements of it have disappeared: the omnipotence and immunity of the president; the discretionary use of public funds as private assets; electoral fraud; control of the press, the legislature and the judiciary. Then, too, the PRI embraces a wing of reformist politicians who are seeking a genuine modernization of the party.

There's no doubt that the old PRI still exists. It can still count on the rock-solid vote of millions of people used to living in its shelter, it receives substantial support from the corporate labor structure, it's very strong in rural areas, its xenophobic and anti-liberal ideology still lingers, and its local bosses maintain ties with the drug cartels and organized crime. In addition, some members of the old PRI have taken refuge in the PRD, the Democratic Revolution Party, and are looking to rebuild it on an ideology that's rabidly opposed to the free market and possibly inclined to a populist leadership.

Mexico can't simply bury the old PRI. But through democracy and transparency, it can continue to dismantle the corporate structures, the webs of corruption and the paternalistic mentality. The best way forward is to strengthen the autonomy of the judicial branch and the freedom of the press -- precisely the powers that emerged victorious from the trial of Luis Echeverría.

To persevere in these two areas would be a fitting response to Mexico's most recent double earthquake. Despite its grave problems, Mexico is confident enough to move ahead without turning too much toward the wrongs of the past.

Publicado en The New York Times, 10 de agosto de 2004.