The article examines the ideological character of Juan Carlos Onganía's dictatorship by exploring its ties and dialogue with Francisco Franco's Spain. Known as the “Argentine Revolution,” Onganía's regime (1966-70) was, the article shows, one of the first Cold War Latin American dictatorship to overtly use Francoist ideology as its point of reference. While building on the conventional wisdom that the legacies of the Spanish Civil War informed right-wing thought in Latin America, the study then shifts its focus to Spain's 1960s “economic miracle” and technocratic state model, observing them as a prominent discursive toolkit for authoritarian Argentine intellectuals. Drawing on newly discovered correspondence and archival sources, the article first excavates the intellectual networks operating between Franco's Spain and the Argentine right during the 1950s and 1960s. Once handpicked by Onganía to design his regime, these Argentine Franco-sympathizers were to decide the character of the Argentine Revolution. Second, the article sheds light on the intimate collaboration between the two dictatorships, and further explores the reasons for Onganía's downfall. In doing so, the study adds to a burgeoning historiographic field that underscores the significance of the Francoist dictatorship in the Latin American right-wing imaginary.

A prevailing idea in the scholarly literature is that the New Laws of 1542 outlawed the enslavement of indios (Indigenous people of the Spanish Indies, a category invented by Europeans) in Spanish America. Many see the enactment of this legislation as emblematic of the Spanish crown's exertion of imperial authority over the conquerors who had caused irreparable damage to the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. This article contests this prevailing narrative. It explores how and why the Council of the Indies (the governing council of the Spanish possessions, reporting directly to the king), the Spanish king, and viceroys (or audiencias with viceregal approval) mandated Indigenous slavery for life or for a temporary period. Mandates affected at least 15 Indigenous groups in at least ten locations throughout the Spanish-occupied Western Hemisphere in the seven decades following the passage of the New Laws. I focus on this period to explain the conditions, rationales, legal channels, and procedures used by vassals and local and imperial authorities to authorize the enslavement of targeted Indigenous peoples.

This special issue traces its roots to a workshop on the international, transnational and global dimensions of the Nicaraguan Revolution held at the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE) in May 2019. Convened by Dr. Eline van Ommen and Dr. Tanya Harmer, the editors of this special issue, the workshop was generously funded by the LSE Department of International History and the LSE Latin America and Caribbean Centre. Most of the articles that follow were first presented at this workshop, where a lively exchange took place on the revolution's history and present-day legacies.

The political legacy of Lázaro Cárdenas is marked by a striking paradox. On the one hand, Cárdenas as president of Mexico from 1934 to 1940 presided over the most radical phase of the Mexican Revolution or what some historians call the “Second Revolution.” He was instrumental in organizing industrial workers and peasants at the national level and incorporating both groups into the reorganized government party, the Partido de la Revolutión Mexicana (PRM), that had as its declared purpose the establishment of a “workers' democracy” in Mexico. Under his leadership the government supported the demands of industrial workers for higher wages and improved working conditions, greatly expanded the distribution of land to the peasantry, established new welfare programs, nationalized the railroad and petroleum industries and inaugurated a program of socialist education in the public schools. The prestige of Cárdenas as the foremost leader of the radical phase of the Revolution was enhanced by the fact that he, unlike many of his contemporaries, never attempted to use political office for personal financial gain; he was not a rich man when he completed his term of office as president. At the time of his death in 1970, Cárdenas was eulogized as “the greatest figure produced by the Revolution… an authentic revolutionary who aspired to the greatness of his country, not personal aggrandizement.” On the other hand, Cárdenas was the architect of the corporatist system of interest representation, including labor, peasant and business organizations, that provided the institutional framework of what Crane Brinton has called the “Thermidor,” i.e., the conservative reaction to the radical phase of the revolutionary process, that began in Mexico in approximately 1940. The institutions developed by Cárdenas were utilized by his successors to curtail the very reforms, such as agrarian and labor reform and socialist education, that had been central to his reform program. Moreover Cárdenas facilitated the transition to a more conservative era by naming as his successor Manuel Ávila Camacho, who was known to favor a moderation of the reform process, rather than Francisco Múgica, the preferred candidate of the radicals in the government. In short, Cárdenas played a decisive role both in presiding over the radical phase of the Revolution and in launching and shaping the relatively conservative post-1940 era. The paradox of the political legacy of Cárdenas is that though the seemingly radical reforms he carried out had a lasting impact upon Mexican politics, the impact was predominantly conservative rather than radical. This essay will endeavor to explain the paradoxical political legacy of Lázaro Cárdenas by focusing upon his ideology, the institutional reforms he carried out while president, and the impact of those reforms after 1940.

On September 20, 1835, borderland chieftains and their followers in Rio Grande do Sul, known as Farrapos or Ragamuffins, toppled the provincial government in Pôrto Alegre. By November 1836 the Farrapos had established a republican government in the small town of Piratini in the southwest hills of the province; for close to ten years they would withstand the power of the Brazilian Empire in their bid for independence. At the outset, when the rebels had captured the initiative, they were reluctant to use slaves in the Ragamuffin army. Aware of internal security problems and the sanctity of private propetry, the leadership expressed fear of arming and training Afro-Brazilians. But as the maddening horse-war dragged on, the newly created Republic of Rio Grande do Sul became eager for men who might be counted as white. By the end of the Ragamuffin War, slaves were the backbone of the rebel army.

In 1534 Ulrich Schmidl set sail for South America where he participated in the Spanish conquest of the River Plate region. He remained there twenty years, after which he returned to his native town Straubing and wrote a diary of his adventures. This account represents one of the oldest and most important sources of information about the Spanish conquest of the River Plate region and the first settlements in Argentina. Although it is often difficult to identify tribes and villages due to his distorted spellings of the Indian names, historians regard the account as generally reliable. The text is preserved in three manuscripts in Stuttgart, Munich, and Hamburg. The Stuttgart manuscripts stems from Ulrich Schmidl himself. It is located in the Hautstaatsarchiv Stuttgart, where it is identified as Cod. hist. 4° 153. It was edited in 1893 by Johannes Mondschein, who, in the preface to his edition, characterized the manuscript as “die erste Niederschrift von der ungeübten Hand des eben von einem langen und wilden Kriegsund Abenteuerleben heimgekehrten Kriegsmannes.” The two other manuscripts are later copies, although the Munich manuscript does contain Schmidl's signature in his own hand.

There is no egoism or special virtue in the fact that all of us on this program have numerous research possibilities to suggest. The plain truth is that the field of Latin American history bulges with first-class topics for historical writing. In this respect I am sure that we Latin Americanists are more fortunate than colleagues in some other historical fields where, it is my impression, there is a good deal of trampling of each other’s grapes. But historical research is not the contemplation of ideas, no matter how promising they may be, and in Latin America the investigator confronts notorious difficulties in obtaining orderly source materials. Therefore, before turning to some of the research possibilities, I should touch briefly on several underlying assumptions. The first is that the investigators working on these topics shall be qualified linguistically, technically, and intellectually to accomplish their work in Latin America and in the United States. Unhappily, this has not always been the case in this underdeveloped field. Second, for all of these topics I estimate that there exists a sufficiency of source materials, although in some cases that assumption has not been fully tested in the field. (This is the point at which field research in Latin America takes on a more colorful aspect than research, let’s say, in the British Museum.) Finally, an investigator engaged in research in Latin America must have, or quickly develop, a hunter’s ability to move rapidly yet sure-footedly after his quarry, tracking down private and even public archives which, at the outset of his adventure in research, may be completely unknown to him.

Indian policy in Brazil, as in many countries, was and is a confused mixture of religion, humanitarianism, and greed. Almost every kind of system has been tried: open barter during the early years, undisguised slavery until 1570, lay administrators until 1624, missionary tutelage in some form from 1624 to 1759, with intermittent relapses into lay administration, secularization after 1755, with lay directors until 1798; military administration under civil judges until the end of the empire, and finally in 1910 the establishment of the Indian Service under General Rondón.

In 1876, the Revolution of Tuxtepec raged in the Mexican countryside, producing more war dead for families to mourn. The timely arrival of General Manuel González on the battlefield at the hacienda of Tecoac (Tlaxcala) forced Federal Army General Ignacio Alatorre to surrender to the rebels on November 16. Without an army, President Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada went into exile and the forces of General Porfirio Díaz entered Mexico City unopposed. Widespread melancholia continued through December. The journalist “Juvenal” (Enrique Chávarri) wrote about the gloomy outlook in the capital, where no serenades or social gatherings rang in the new year. Instead of patronizing restaurants, people flocked to churches to pray for a better year.

From 1903 to 1911, Chihuahua was dominated by the Terrazas-Creel clan. For the patriarch of the clan, Luis Terrazas, the great latifundist and cattle baron, it was a prosperous time. He occupied the office of governor for the first fifteen months of the period and then retired, turning it over to his son-in law, Enrique C. Creel, who served first as interim and then as constitutional governor until the eve of the Madero revolt in 1910.

The effects of porfirismo filtered down to Chihuahuans through the clan. It dispensed offices, lucrative contracts, and concessions through Creel’s científico connections in Mexico City. It monopolized the state legislative offices—only twenty-seven persons sat in the legislature from 1903 to 1911 with the clan names of Terrazas, Creel, and Cuilty occurring in every session.

In 1941, the well-known international Cold War actor Serafino Romualdi traveled to South America for the first time. As a representative of the New York-based Mazzini Society, Romualdi sought to grow a robust anti-fascist movement among South America's Italian communities, finding the most success in Uruguay. As Romualdi conducted his tour of South America, he began writing a series of reports on local fascist activities, which caught the attention of officials at the Office of the Coordinator for Inter-American Affairs (OCIAA), a US government agency under the direction of Nelson Rockefeller. The OCIAA would eventually tap Romualdi and his growing connections in South America to gather intelligence concerning Italian and German influence in the region. This investigation sheds light on the critical function that Romualdi and his associates played in helping the US government to construct the initial scaffolding necessary to orchestrate various strategies under the umbrella of OCIAA-sponsored cultural diplomacy. Despite his limited success with Italian anti-fascist groups in Latin America, Romualdi's experience in the region during the early 1940s primed him to become an effective agent for the US government with a shrewd understanding of the value in shaping local labor movements during the Cold War.