The 1968 Student Movement and the Occupation of Casco de Santo Tomás

1968. The year that brought us the first human heart transplant, the Apollo program gearing up to land on the moon, and of course, the Mexican government committing one of the most controversial acts of state violence in the country’s contemporary history. Yes, I’m talking about the student movement of 1968, and if you think it was just about rebellious kids raising a ruckus for the sake of being rebellious, think again.

In what is now remembered as a series of tragic and bloody events, the Mexican government effectively launched an all-out war on its own students. That climaxed, most infamously, on October 2, 1968, at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in Tlatelolco. What happened? Hundreds were killed. No one knows the exact number because people were being disappeared as if they were keys you swear you left on the kitchen counter, only this time, they never reappeared. Casual strolls into history were followed by brutal crackdowns, and a suffocating authoritarian regime made sure those footsteps vanished.

But that’s not the whole story. In fact, what happened on October 2 was really just the "grande finale" to a movement that had been building in strength and facing state repression in earlier episodes. One such crucial chapter was the Army's occupation of Casco de Santo Tomás, part of the Instituto Politécnico Nacional (IPN), on September 23, 1968. This episode is tragically underreported, a sort of forgotten appetizer to the massacre that was to follow days later. And let’s be honest, you probably haven’t heard much about it because, well, most of the focus lands squarely on the drama of October 2, leaving September 23 to collect dust in the forgotten footnotes of history.

Now, imagine this: The Army, swarming in like a swarm of particularly unpleasant hornets, tanks rumbling, soldiers armed with M1 rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers—basically enough firepower to flatten a small town. What were they up against? Students wielding homemade Molotov cocktails and rocks. Yes, rocks. This was not a battle; it was a state-sponsored slaughter. But of course, the official story always rounds down the numbers.

According to official records, "four people died, two students, two police officers, and about 49 were injured." Now, excuse me for being cynical, but that's a bit like saying, "Only a few things got burned" after dropping a flamethrower in a room full of fireworks. Survivors and various independent organizations vehemently argue that the number of victims was far higher. You’ve got students, yes, but also teachers, workers, and neighbors—essentially anyone who had the nerve to ask for a system that wasn’t grossly authoritarian.

The discontent in Mexico didn’t just pop up out of nowhere. Oh no. The student movement didn’t magically materialize in the late 60s just because someone decided to start waving a flag and shouting slogans. The repression we saw was the result of years of increasing state control, stamping down on anything that so much as hinted at opposition. This was the same government that had already clamped down on the railroad workers' movement and the doctors' movement with brutal efficiency. You’d think that by 1968, they’d have mellowed a bit. You’d be wrong.

So, what happened after the Army rolled in and occupied Casco de Santo Tomás? Well, from September 23 to 24, the operation was a kind of slow-motion demolition of the resistance. The area wasn’t just populated by students fighting for their rights—it was also home to teachers, laborers, workers, and regular residents who, rather understandably, had grown tired of living under an iron-fisted political regime. The final tally? Wounded, murdered, missing, imprisoned. But who’s counting when the state controls the abacus?

Here’s where things get even murkier. The massacre of October 2 may be better remembered, but the occupation of the Casco de Santo Tomás was, in many ways, the precursor that set the stage for the scale of repression that would follow. The Army’s heavy-handed approach on September 23 made it abundantly clear: Mexico’s government wasn’t interested in dialogue or peaceful resolution. They had the firepower, and they were more than happy to use it.

Now, here’s the kicker: Despite the magnitude of what happened, very little has been made public about this occupation. A quick glance at the dusty annals of history reveals a wealth of information—if you're prepared to dig for it. The Federal Security Directorate (DFS) played a pivotal role in monitoring the movement, and, as it happens, they were rather meticulous about recording it all. Buried in old archives are unpublished photographs that chronicle the brutal repression, the arrest of students, and the aftermath of the military intervention.

Yes, you read that right. Photographs. Evidence. The sort of thing that, when it hits the public eye, can cause a few people to start sweating. The DFS kept these little gems hidden, their sole purpose being to inform the president and Secretary of the Interior, rather like a schoolboy passing secret notes to his teacher. These photos, and the documents they’re part of, are now accessible to the public in the General Archive of the Nation. A treasure trove of suppressed truths just waiting to be discovered.

So, what does all of this mean? The DFS’s photographic record, and the documents they left behind, are more than just historical curiosities. They’re a testament to the very real crimes and human rights violations that were carried out not just on one dark October night, but over the course of years during the 60s, 70s, and 80s. These were decades when speaking out was dangerous, and standing up meant you could very well disappear, never to be seen again.

The fact that these records are now available to the public is crucial. It’s not just about learning the truth—it’s about making sure this truth is shared, loud and clear, so that no one forgets. History has an unpleasant habit of repeating itself, and if there’s one thing we should all agree on, it’s that we don’t want a repeat of this particular chapter. Access to these sources offers a pathway to justice, however belated that justice may be.

In conclusion, the events of September 23–24, 1968, were no mere warm-up act for the Tlatelolco massacre. They were a significant event in their own right, demonstrating the government’s willingness to crush any and all opposition to its authoritarian rule. The students, teachers, workers, and civilians who stood up in the Casco de Santo Tomás may not have had much more than rocks and makeshift weapons, but their resistance was anything but futile. And now, with the right information available, it’s up to us to ensure their story—and their demand for justice—lives on.