How the PRI Turned Nepantla into a War Zone

In 1974, Mexico was a land simmering in tension, a pressure cooker with the lid held down tight by the iron fist of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, or PRI. The decade was marked not by disco fever and bell-bottoms, but by a pervasive, suffocating aura of fear, violence, and authoritarian control. A nation where every conversation might be overheard, every letter read, and every peaceful gathering a potential prelude to bloodshed. Democracy was as absent as a Formula 1 car in a horse race, and repression was served hot, with extra brutality.

To truly capture the spirit of the 1970s in Mexico, you need to understand that the government was absolutely obsessed with maintaining its grip on power. The PRI, ruling with an authoritarian flair that would make even the most power-hungry autocrats blush, didn’t just suppress dissent—they annihilated it. And anyone brave or foolhardy enough to stand against them, whether peaceful activist or committed guerrilla fighter, was treated to the most imaginative and cruel forms of state-sponsored wrath.

Enter the National Liberation Forces (FLN), a ragtag band of guerrillas formed in 1969. These weren't mere rabble-rousers looking for a scrap; no, they had grand ambitions. They dreamed of a Mexico free from the PRI’s chokehold, and they were willing to fight for it with a tenacity that makes bear wrestling look like a stroll in the park. Their vision was as revolutionary as a rocket ship powered by tequila, and over five years, they managed to spread their message to key areas, including the dense jungles of Chiapas and the bustling chaos of Monterrey.

The FLN eventually established three main bases of operations. Monterrey, Nuevo León housed one, because who wouldn’t want to plot a revolution in a city known for its wealth and industrial might? Another base took root in Ocosingo, Chiapas, among the thick, mosquito-infested jungles, ideal for guerilla warfare and just perfect if you fancy yourself a Che Guevara wannabe. But the third base, tucked away in Nepantla, State of Mexico, was where the heart of the tragedy beats hardest. They called it “La Casa Grande,” a safe house of sorts, but safe is a bit of an exaggeration, really. It was more like a revolutionary bed and breakfast—without the breakfast, but with an extra helping of idealism.

The crew at La Casa Grande included a colorful cast of characters. Gloria Benavides, an indefatigable revolutionary; Anselmo Ríos Ríos, better known as “Gabriel,” because having a nom de guerre was all the rage; and Dení Prieto Stock, who, together with Raúl Sergio Morales Villa Real, or “Babuchas,” had a revolutionary marriage, which, one assumes, came with vows that were a bit more serious than the average “till death do us part.” The two tied the knot on November 8, 1973, presumably between planning raids and evading the authorities. This wasn't your average white picket fence life; this was revolution with a capital R.

But as fate would have it, the government wasn’t asleep at the wheel. Thanks to some catastrophic luck—or perhaps a grim demonstration of the government's relentless efficiency—the location of La Casa Grande was compromised. It all unraveled following the arrests of Nora Rivera and Napoleon Glockner in Monterrey. After some brutal “interrogation”—read: torture in a way that makes medieval methods look like a friendly chat—they spilled the beans, and the Mexican authorities sprang into action.

When I say “sprang into action,” think less James Bond elegance and more military sledgehammer. Over a hundred agents descended upon Nepantla, and the word “overkill” doesn't quite capture it. Imagine an army of ants attacking a picnic crumb with flamethrowers. The Federal Security Directorate (DFS), Judicial Police, and the Mexican Army unleashed a barrage of gunfire that would have made Rambo proud. The house was reduced to a bullet-riddled shadow of its former self, and the violence was so one-sided it might as well have been a gladiator match where only one side had swords. None of the revolutionaries trapped inside stood a chance.

Five members of the FLN were slaughtered, executed with a level of ruthlessness that can only be described as cold and clinical. Not a single one was spared the coup de grâce. Yet, somehow, in this maelstrom of death, two managed to escape. Gloria Benavides emerged as a survivor, a witness to the blood-soaked horror, her testimony piercing through the years like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

This massacre wasn’t just a footnote in history; it was a grim exhibit of the Mexican government's dirty war against dissent, a war fought not with arguments and debates but with gunfire and brutality. The state didn't merely seek to silence the FLN; it aimed to obliterate them, to turn their dream of revolution into a bloodstained nightmare. And it very nearly succeeded.

Yet even in the face of such overwhelming violence, the spirit of the FLN lingered, a ghostly echo in the jungles of Chiapas and beyond. Their legacy would rise again in the form of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN), which would make headlines decades later, demanding rights for indigenous people and sparking a movement that still reverberates today.

So, as we reflect on this grim episode, one thing becomes glaringly clear: the fight for freedom and justice in Mexico has never been easy. It’s been a road paved with the sacrifices of dreamers and fighters, and haunted by the memories of battles that were as unequal as a bicycle race between a kid and a tank. Even today, the story of Nepantla remains a stark reminder of what happens when a government cares more about maintaining power than the people it purports to serve.