In December of 1980 three women religious and a lay missioner from the United States were brutally raped and murdered by the Salvadoran military. This outrage brought international attention to the violence in El Salvador and led to a temporary halt in US military aid. The sisters were neither the first nor the most violently killed—8,000 people were massacred in 1980 and 45,000 between 1980 and 1984—but their rape and murder, the murder of Archbishop Romero in March of 1980, and that of six Jesuit priests in 1989 were consistently cited as evidence of the sheer brutality and impunity of the Salvadoran military regime. Killing priests and bishops and raping and murdering nuns signified quite simply that “nothing was sacred.”

Some contemporary historians maintain that the administrative reforms of Charles III (1759-1788), bear a substantial part of the blame for the disruption of the Spanish empire. These reforms, they argue, alienated the American population. By ending the corrupt practices that had allowed Creoles to control their own affairs, the crown sowed the seeds of independence. Implicit in this view is the thesis that Charles' Minister of the Indies, José de Gálvez (1776-1787), carried out a “revolution in government” which permanently altered the behavior of the high colonial bureaucracy. Presumably, whereas Hapsburg administrators had been chiefly occupied with the pragmatic achievement of tasks, regardless of the means employed, Bourbon administrators became increasingly concerned with the mindless enforcement of rules devised in the Peninsula. In this fashion the autonomy of the bureaucracy was eroded, and the colonial population was deprived of its traditional means of influencing policy formation.

At the present time there is much interest both in factual history and in the history of the ideas which motivated these facts. This might be the justification, for instance, of so many monographs which are now appearing in many countries about the religious motives which gave impulse to great reforms.

The Spanish enterprise of the Indies has already been the subject of such studies, both from the point of view of Spanish thinkers and writers or from the standpoint—much less frequent—of the “Indianos” or Americans themselves.

The exact date on which the first Franciscan friars arrived in Cuba remains unknown, but it was certainly during an early phase of the conquest. Regardless of the exact moment in which the friars disembarked on the island, it is important to note that it marked the beginning of a long history, a history almost condemned to obscurity and from time to time the object of harsh criticism and impassioned indulgence, and more often recorded through partial constructions than through investigation and reasoning. Perhaps because of the complexity of its peculiarities and/or for certain socio-political determining factors that will not be analyzed at this time, Cuba has been one of the marginalized territories of the American ecclesiastical historiography. Nevertheless, in recent years, interest in ecclesiastical themes has grown incrementally among some scholars who, striving to fill the voids, have opened new lines of research and venture to investigate the older documents of the archive.

The novel Sab by Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda may be considered one of the outstanding products of her early Cuban environment. The work was begun in 1836 or earlier (while the author was traveling with her family to Spain), completed by 1838, and first published in 1841. In order to prepare the way for a favorable reception of the novel in her native land, as well as on the continent, la Avellaneda submitted the first ten chapters in 1839 to a “compatriota” residing in Sevilla:

The franciscan custody, or Minor Province, of Rio Verde in Mexico occupied a comparatively small section of that large country. It lay between the present cities of San Luis Potosí and Tampico. We can say that its boomerang-shaped territory made up part of the southeastern part of the modern state of San Luis Potosí and extended northward to the southwestern section of the modern state of Tamaulipas, and possibly into the southernmost tip of the state of Nuevo León. Missionary endeavor soon encompassed this section of New Spain to the north of Mexico City. With a sort of holy emulation the Franciscan provinces vied with one another in staking claims—spiritual claims—to large sections of the “land of the Chichimecs” or marauding pagan Indians to the north of Aztec domination. The new section of which we will speak in this paper is called “Rio Verde” from a tributary river of the same name, which flows into the Río Panuco and thence to the Atlantic. It was called “verde” either because of its dark color, due to depth, or because of the green verdure along its banks.

Since it was the Franciscan Province of San Pedro y San Pablo of Michoacán that began the work of evangelizing Rio Verde and continued it throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it is necessary to review in a few brief sentences the early history of this Franciscan province.

After a border skirmish at the Rio Grande on April 25, 1846, A Mexico and the United States were at war, and within a few months Zachary Taylor’s troops had overrun the north, reaching Monterrey and Saltillo. At the same time an expedition under Winfield Scott landed at Vera Cruz and pushed inward along the ancient road of conquest, reaching the gates of Mexico City by August, 1847. Mexican resistance was heroic and determined in spots, but disorganization and poor leadership played havoc with any attempt at national defense. The capital fell and was occupied by the invaders, the Mexican government fled to Querétaro, and an ignominious peace treaty was negotiated and accepted by the helpless Mexicans, though not without serious opposition from the radical (puro) element which favored a last-ditch resistance. With the rapid subjection of the country and the loss of more than half its territory, the once proud and optimistic nation of Iturbide was left stunned; and it turned to bitter reflection upon its paralyzed condition and its flagrant display of weakness when faced by a small and not too efficient force of invaders.

The very independence of Mexico was now threatened. Such an easy victory by a powerful neighbor would mean that Mexico might at any time be absorbed by the United States, especially when there was a movement for that purpose already afoot north of the Rio Grande. The easy optimism of the early days of the republic had now vanished. The shock of military disaster, after the dismal decade of mediocrity and humdrum military revolutions, accentuated a crisis in Mexican thought. Both liberals and conservatives now saw the necessity of imposing radical changes upon the course of independent Mexico. Since the overthrow of the radical Gómez Farias government in 1834, the country had been allowed to drift, and when the Americans invaded, its vigor appeared to be gone. In spite of the presence of a sizable moderate party, the factions became sharply differentiated as they had never been before in the history of the republic, except perhaps for the year 1832. Liberals and conservatives appealed to their traditional programs for solutions to Mexico’s crisis of 1847, and the seeds were sown for a great conflict.

Inscribed on the outside walls of Quito’s Cathedral is a list of the men who invaded, occupied, and ultimately renamed the Inka city of Quito for Saint Francis on August 28, 1534. Listed among these individuals are two blacks—Juan (de color negro), and Anton (negro). Juan and Anton represented the hundreds (and perhaps thousands by this date) of blacks, explorers, conquistadors, slaves, and squires who had come to the Americas during the age of conquest (1492-1550). Although the biographical records for Juan and Anton are sketchy, sources indicate that they were freemen.

The Full Realization that the brave Admiral of the Ocean Sea had discovered not a new route to India and the fabled wealth of Cipango and Cathay but an otro mundo, another world, soon became inescapable. Here was another world, with all the implications of the term, inhabited by human beings gathered in various groupings, with varying degrees of development, yet none beyond the stone and precious metals stage, none with a fully integrated system of writing, none beyond the stage of human sacrifices in their religious practices. On what grounds had the crown of Spain a right to disturb the existing conditions? The problem presented was new to a Christian world just awakening from the long and troubled slumber of the Middle Ages. The norms developed by Western Europe in its relations with Islam and the Near East did not seem to apply to the peoples of the otro mundo, or New World.

The best example of the effect produced by Fray Bartolomé de las Casas’ theoretical writings concerning the just title Spain held to America occurred in Peru during the rule of Viceroy Francisco de Toledo, wise law-giver, energetic administrator, and greatest viceroy Spain ever sent to Peru, who laid the basis for Spanish rule there during the years 1569–1582. Before his coming, Peru had had a most turbulent and bloody history, and Toledo arrived with one great aim—to establish without question in this territory the position of the King of Spain. One of his earliest acts was to execute the Inca, Lord Tupac Amaru, the Indian leader who refused to accept Spanish rule. Presently, with a view to establishing Spain’s juridical title to Peru, he undertook an extensive historical investigation which attempted to demonstrate the unjust nature of the Inca regime and thus demolish the doctrines of Las Casas.

The Southern Portion of the United States is greatly indebted to the Franciscan friars who planted there the seed of what was, in the course of time, to become the mighty tree of Christian culture that flourishes in the land today. Fray Juan de Zumárraga, first Bishop and Archbishop of Mexico, was instrumental in bringing Franciscans to New Spain from where, as pioneers, they were to take Christian culture and religion to Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.

Zumárraga was born in Durango, Province of Vizcaya, Spain, near the close of 1468 or the beginning of 1469. He was the son of Juan López de Zumárraga and Teresa de Lares, both of noble lineage.

In considering acts of military intervention by foreign powers which occurred in Mexico during the Mexican Revolution, one is apt to think of the years 1914, 1916 and 1919, when U.S. forces invaded or occupied portions of Mexican territory. There was, however, one case of intervention of this sort during the revolution in which U.S. military personnel were not involved–the landing of a small party of British marines belonging to the H.M.S. “Shearwater” at the port of San Quintín on the northwest coast of the Baja Californian peninsula in April 1911.

The British landing at San Quintm constituted a vestige or remnant of "gunboat diplomacy", an aspect of English foreign policy that had originated in the age of Palmerston and which reflected the unrivaled naval supremacy enjoyed by Great Britain during the period extending from the defeat of Napoleon in 1815 to the end of the Second World War. The episode represented, in a rather overt way, the hard-nosed attitude characteristic of British foreign policy at that time with regards to Latin America in general and other so-called "backward" regions of the globe.

Patterns of land ownership and availability define pre-industrial society. Land defines wealth and translates into political power and social status. Thus historians of Latin America have been interested in land usage and distribution before economic and social history came into vogue. However, the major focus has been on the hacienda, not the small holders, and the assumed model was Mexico, not Paraguay or Colombia. A series of colonial regional studies on Mexico and Peru published in the 1970s and 1980s demonstrated the variation in economic power and regional differences of the hacienda but only incidentally probed the status of small holders. The recognition of the persistence of a variety of early land patterns, including indigenous communal landholdings, however, has challenged earlier interpretations of the socioeconomic power of the hacienda. The awareness of differences of market factors and population density within regions laid the basis for new questions about ownership, land usage, labor, and the forms of internal and external community relations.

An affinity for urban living has frequently been cited as one of the peculiar characteristics or long standing traditions of the Spanish people. Whether one accepts the existence of medieval Iberian cities as a heritage from the Roman municipium or as a necessary defensive establishment against the attacks of the Moors, it is evident that town life was flourishing in the Middle Ages. Municipal governments were formed to administer the communities, and as new towns were captured or created, the old models of organization were carried with the expanding frontier. In Castile the local councils were called concejos or cabildos and until the fourteenth century were often elective, representative institutions with increasing influence and power. But from the reign of Alfonso XI (1312-1350) their strength began to wane as the Castilian kings attempted to control their domains by appointing local officials and dispatching royal agents to work with them. By the sixteenth century the success of the centralizing methods was evident, for the municipal councils had become virtually the tools of the Castilian Crown.

In her study on the configuration of difference in colonial New Granada, Joanne Rappaport contends that many studies “tend to ignore how different practices of distinguishing one individual from another came into play in concrete situations,” and as a result they “end up labeling as ‘race’ something that was much more multifaceted.” Subsequently, she urges scholars to interpret colonial subjects and their identities on their own terms. This study responds to Rappaport's call by analyzing the workings of the historical concept of calidad in colonial Spanish America.

“I carried a package for Osvaldo Pugliese,” Teresa de Gílenberg proudly recalled during our interview in 1997. One day in the late 1940s, this Communist militant of Polish origins asked Juan, a vendor in her barrio, if he would contribute potatoes and gather foods from other tradesmen in solidarity with Pugliese, a renowned tango composer, orchestra director, and Communist who was incarcerated in the infamous Villa Devoto jail. Juan brought her a large parcel containing his donations and those offered by his fellow vendors, and she personally handed it to the musician.

This article examines the sylvan political ecology of late colonial New Spain and the colonial government's attempt to address deforestation through the Council on Forests, the first body in the kingdom's history dedicated to the conservation of natural resources. Drawing primarily from the corpus of documents produced by and remitted to the council, this article gives a trans-regional perspective on colonial forest use and argues that the Spanish crown's usurpation of indigenous communities’ eminent domain over forests was the first step in a process that over centuries progressively severed the cultural ties that bound communities and forests by converting common-pool resources into open-access commons. The catastrophic mortality of the Spanish invasion was the second step, which rendered conservation measures seemingly unnecessary among both woodcutters and officials. But it was during the eighteenth century that older Habsburg notions of protectionism intersected with economic and political changes associated with Bourbon rule to further compel this cultural severance. While previous works have studied the ecological impacts of mining, ranching, and flood control, this article moves beyond the study of a single industry to suggest some of the larger ecological consequences of Spanish colonialism.

When in the late eighteenth century the prelates of the Fourth Mexican Provincial Council ordered all clergy to stricdy employ their newly printed catechism, they provided a valuable description of the colonial Church and its relationship to unofficial ecclesiastical texts. The Fourth Provincial Council's call for the faithful to receive the doctrines of the Church in a sanctioned and uniform manner acknowledged the presence of a variety of Catholic discourses that stemmed from colonial religious works deemed to be “destitute of legitimate authority and revision.” Such unofficial ecclesiastical texts avoided the editing process that both the clergy and Crown established to ensure the orthodoxy of all printed religious material. In so doing, the texts could convey diverse, unorthodox interpretations of Catholicism. These unofficial ecclesiastical texts, and the role they played in producing multiple versions of Catholicism, constitute the focus of this study.