Summary

This paper examines Ciudad Tlatelolco in Mexico City as a symbolic and physical embodiment of Mexico’s twentieth-century pursuit of modernity through Modernist design. Initially conceived by architect Mario Pani as a utopian housing project meant to integrate functionality, nationalism, and progress, Ciudad Tlatelolco instead became a stage for some of the nation’s most devastating events: the 1968 student massacre and the 1985 earthquake. Through architectural analysis and historical context, the essay argues that while Tlatelolco was designed to represent order, progress, and identity, its form ultimately enabled state violence and exposed the government's negligence. Rather than a triumph of modernity, Tlatelolco became a site where the relationship between design and lived reality became conflicted.

In the heart of Mexico City, just north of its historic center, Ciudad Tlatelolco stands out in its monumentality and historical significance. Spanning 950,000 square meters and made up of more than 100 tall buildings, some over twenty stories high, it remains one of the largest housing complexes in Latin America. Its towering concrete structures, defined by precise lines and Modernist ambition, sharply contrast with a sixteenth-century colonial church, the ruins of an Aztec pyramid, and a 125-meter-tall, pyramid-like tower made of reinforced concrete, glass, and aluminum. Despite this eclectic blend of architectural styles and periods, Tlatelolco’s design rarely dominates casual conversation.

 More than 60 years after construction concluded, its name has become synonymous with some of Mexico’s most defining, violent, and tragic events. It was here that Cuauhtémoc was captured and executed in 1525, marking the decisive fall of the Aztec Empire to the Spanish. Centuries later, only a few years after the complex’s modern structures were completed, Tlatelolco became the site of the 1968 student massacre, further cementing its place in the national psyche as a space of trauma. Then, in 1985, the deadliest earthquake in the country’s recorded history struck, collapsing an entire building and leaving many others irreparably damaged, once again adding to Tlatelolco’s death toll.

Although its history may not be obvious to those unfamiliar with its layered history, Tlatelolco’s current state and its relationship with the surrounding areas of Mexico City evidence the hardships that the housing complex has endured. Its desolate feel, its unusually closed-off nature, and the questions it raises about neglect and maintenance all hint at a deeper story. As someone who grew up in Mexico City, walking through Tlatelolco without thinking about its tragic history feels nearly impossible. Each time I’ve visited, I’ve been struck by its vast green spaces, recreational areas, and infrastructure—what, in my mind, resembles the blueprint of an ideal place: everything and everyone you might need in daily life contained within a self-sufficient city within a city. I’ve always been fascinated by the stark contrast between its modernist design, its current reality, and its place in the country’s history. How does this Modernist vision, manifested in the complex’s own design, coexist with its heavy history and relevance in Mexico’s present? 

Positioning the social housing project of Ciudad Tlatelolco in Mexico City, directed by architect Mario Pani, as illustrative of Mexico’s project for modernity, this essay explores the country’s complex relationship with the promise of modernity. It is one of the most important, historically and culturally rich places in the country wherein Modernist ideals and design continuously clash and intertwine with their lived reality, even years after its conception. I will analyze how, though designed to represent Mexico’s fast track to modernity, Tlatelolco became a cemetery for the country’s idealist aspirations and promise of a better future. Additionally, and perhaps in direct contrast,  I will illustrate how and why modernist design became the stage for some of the most violent and tragic events in Mexico’s recent history; Tlatelolco’s image inevitably forever transformed in the national collective consciousness. In order to do this, I will focus not only on the technical, aesthetic, or formal aspects of Tlatelolco, but also on the impact it had on the lives of the people it was intended for.

I offer this not just as a critique, but as an invitation to expand the way we study design: to situate it within its lived reality. In other words, I argue that time, lived experience, and human interaction with design may not change its material form, but undoubtedly shape its understanding and its dialogue with the present. Understanding how design evolves over time enriches our perception of it, ensuring that the histories we write about it are more inclusive of its true impact and relationship to the people and the world it inhabits.

Modernity, Design,  and National Identity in Twentieth-Century Mexico

The tension between ideals and lived experience is not unique to Tlatelolco. It echoes a broader global story, in which design became a vessel for modernity’s promises. Throughout the world design was utilized to represent and actualize the ideals of modernity, becoming the ultimate tool to visually translate concepts of progress, technology, and the vision of an orderly future.  

In Mexico, as early as the late nineteenth century, the slogan “Order and Progress” emerged under the leadership of President-Dictator Porfirio Díaz. Deeply influenced by positivism and utterly fascinated by the European way of life, Díaz prioritized the country’s industrialization at all costs during his 30-year rule. While the Mexican Revolution opposed the authoritarian regime of Díaz, it did not entirely break away from modernist ideals. Instead, they were adapted, not only to pursue economic progress but also to fit the specific conditions and needs of the Mexican population post-revolution. Modernism thus served as the perfect catalyst for the Mexican government’s twentieth-century mission to forge a new Mexican identity: an opportunity the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) seized to construct the image of a “new” Mexico. However, for Mexico, modernity did not seek to completely detach from the past in the pursuit of progress; instead, it focused on the present as the catalyst for ideas of social renovation and incorporation; inevitably tied to colonial ideals of living and standards for the city the government envisioned as the new image of Modern Mexico. ¹

Following the end of the Revolution in 1920, Mexico City experienced rapid demographic and economic growth, pressuring the state to reorganize its urban structure while navigating crises of political representation, social justice, and technological development. President Miguel Alemán, who governed the country from 1947 to 1952, took on the task of promoting the construction of housing specifically designed for the growing working class.² To achieve this, he looked to the support of architects and designers who could integrate the population’s needs with the ideal of modern progress. For the capital’s first social housing project, the president sought out one of the country’s biggest names in architecture and urban design at the time, Mario Pani.

A renowned architect of Modernist design in Mexico, Mario Pani is especially known for his ambitious urban and architectural projects that followed the ideals set forth by European figures like Le Corbusier, whom he deeply admired. Trained as an urban planner and architect in Paris, his education, combined with his family’s connections in the government, positioned him to be a key player in Mexico’s post-revolutionary urban projects. As a result, the Mexican government commissioned him to design housing for the capital’s expanding middle and working classes:³ the Centro Urbano Presidente Miguel Alemán (CUPA).

Drawing from Le Corbusier’s ideas, such as the superblock, neighborhood units, and urban cells, Pani’s work aimed to organically integrate economic progress, social well-being, and architecture.⁴ His designs sought not only to house a large number of people but also to provide all the necessary services, green spaces, and communal areas for collective living. In this pursuit, the CUPA, completed in 1950, became one of the first buildings in Mexico to be classified as multifamiliar. Located near Mexico City’s center in the Colonia Del Valle, the complex housed approximately 4,000 residents across more than 1,000 apartments.⁵ This was just the start of Mario Pani’s collaborations with the government; with other projects such as Ciudad Satélite and Multifamiliar Juárez, the architect proposed a series of highly ambitious developments that once again sought to organize urban space in response to the city’s rapid growth.⁶ Pani’s work in Mexico spans from 1935 to 1974 and includes a diverse range of projects, from houses and apartment complexes to hospitals, hotels, schools, offices, stadiums, shopping centers, and even plans for entire cities.⁷ Yet, I argue that it is his 1959-1964 project, the Centro Urbano Presidente López Mateos, better known as Ciudad Tlatelolco or Tlatelolco-Nonoalco, that particularly demands our attention.

The project of Ciudad Tlatelolco: 1960-1968

The importance of Tlatelolco in Mexican consciousness did not begin with Pani’s ambitious housing project. In fact, this area of the city has long been central to Mexico’s historical narrative, marking key moments in the country’s past. In pre-Hispanic times, Tlatelolco, a Náhuatl word for “the place of the sand mound,”⁸ was the most important commercial center of Tenochtitlán. Its significance to the Mexica people was such that the very moment that defined their defeat against the Spanish took place in Tlatelolco, where Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec emperor, was captured and executed by Spaniards.⁹

Later, during the colonial period, Tlatelolco housed the Colegio de la Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco,¹⁰ a school created for the education of young Indigenous men, which was later turned into a jail for incarcerating revolutionaries during the Independence War of 1810. Many years later, after the Revolution in 1910, Tlatelolco became home to the country’s largest railway yard, where many of the railway workers lived, and led a strike in 1958 to demand better working and living conditions. 

Despite its history, Tlatelolco had been largely neglected, acquiring the nickname Herradura de Tugurios,¹¹ or “Slum Horseshoe,”  due to the overcrowded, unsanitary conditions that many working-class families endured. It was under this sociopolitical tension that, in 1959, a new initiative was proposed to resolve the housing crisis in this historic area of the city: the construction of  Ciudad Tlatelolco.

Taking on this monumental task, Mario Pani began by thoroughly studying the railroad land that would become Ciudad Tlatelolco, analyzing the physical aspects, soil conditions, and its placement within the city’s broader structure. He also studied the population living in the area, noting their economic status, jobs, and measuring their ability to pay rent.¹² Based on this, he started drafting and planning the buildings, which would be designed and categorized into different sectors corresponding to the socio-economic levels of the families who would inhabit them. The project was comprised of the construction of 102 buildings spread across 96 hectares, with approximately 12,000 apartments intended to house around 80,000 people.¹³  This project involved planning for a number of inhabitants much bigger than that of the projects he had worked on before, the first of which only housed around 1,600 people, making Ciudad Tlatelolco a 98% bigger project than his first in 1950, CUPA. 

Following the model of urban cells employed earlier by the architect in other areas of the city, Ciudad Tlatelolco was designed to contain all necessary services within its limits. Various spaces like schools, stores, daycares, hospitals, theaters, and even a cinema were built, alongside the residential units,¹⁴ which occupied only about 30% of the land. The remaining area was planned for green spaces, service areas, and recreation.

Although Pani’s project and his intentions seemed to align with the original purpose of providing the proper living conditions for the workers in the area, not everything in the project’s development went as expected. Before construction began, Pani found himself in conflict with archaeologists concerned about the integrity of the Aztec ruins on the land. Despite the project’s goal to materialize the ideals of modernity in Mexico, as an idealized vision of the future, Pani had to modify and adapt the designs in order to contain and protect an important part of Mexico’s past. The architect had to integrate the remains of an Aztec pyramid and the sixteenth-century Santiago Tlatelolco into his Modernist vision, effectively merging three different styles, eras, and intentions on the same site. 

As a result, Pani designed the Plaza de las Tres Culturas, a large plaza where Mexico’s past, present, and future would coexist. In addition to designing the plaza, the architect wrote an inscription to be placed on a plaque there: “On August 13, 1521, after being heroically defended by Cuauhtémoc, Tlatelolco fell to Hernán Cortés. It was neither victory nor defeat, but the painful birth of the mixed-blood country that is Mexico today.” This inscription metaphorically describes the birth of the promised Modernist future for Mexico; adapting Modernist ideals both figuratively and physically. Rubén Gallo brilliantly expressed what this action meant for the project of modernity in Mexico and its people in his essay “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco”:

The Plaza of the Three Cultures, then, is also the Plaza of the three races, and each of the disparate buildings emerges as a racial trope: the pyramid represents the Aztec race, the church represents the Spaniards, and—this is truly surprising—Pani’s housing blocks symbolize modern mestizo identity. In Pani’s project, modernism no longer represents the purity of forms but rather the impurity and intermingling of blood.¹⁵

Once the matter concerning the conservation of the pyramid with the plaza was resolved, the ambitious construction of Ciudad Tlatelolco continued, along with its vision of regenerating the city. Encountering another problem, this time of an economic nature, designers and architects decided to modify the original project to include luxury residences and fill budget gaps. Thus, the once idealistic, unified project was modified to be separated and categorized into different superblocks designated for different socio-economic groups. 

The first superblock, named La Independencia—the name furthering nationalist aims in its reference to the 1810 War of Independence—was intended for families with lower incomes. It consisted of four and five story blocks (type A buildings), others with nine stories (type B), and fifteen story buildings (type C). In the second unit, named La Reforma, 36 buildings were built for a higher socio-economic stratum, which contained buildings reaching up to twenty-one stories in height. Finally, La República, the third superblock in the complex, contained buildings of types A, B, and C,  as well as the Plaza de las Tres Culturas.¹⁶

Ultimately, the project did not fully serve its intended purpose of focusing primarily on aiding low-income families. Many of the apartments were put up for sale, instead of remaining as rental units as planned, attracting a higher-income population to inhabit the new monument to Mexican modernity. This was a direct consequence not of the unit’s design itself but of the sudden funding cut by the government amidst its construction,¹⁷ which forced the construction team to turn to private funding. However, it would be rather unfair not to mention that at the time, the project largely fulfilled its initiative to provide better living conditions for the area’s inhabitants, as several workers and former residents of the area expressed satisfaction with their new homes and an overall improvement in their quality of life. ¹⁸

Completed in 1964, Ciudad Tlatelolco met the government’s goal of rebuilding an area of the city whose previous conditions did not reflect the vision of a modern, organized, and prosperous Mexico. C.T. illustrates how modernity and Mexican nationalism were co-constitutive projects, as evidenced by the names of each of C.T.’s superblocks, all of which reference historical moments in Mexico’s post-colonial history in name and express notions of modernity in design. It is important to highlight this, as Ciudad Tlatelolco was not just the material construction of buildings, but the physical realization of Modernist ideals intended for Mexican development. As Alejandra Toscano and Alma Villaseñor write: 

Tlatelolco´s construction wasn’t only material but also symbolic, announcing, with the help of massive media outlets, that these functional complexes would solve a big part of the urban problems. The towers represent the Mexican State’s “institutionality”, which emerged with the Revolution of 1910 (…) Nonoalco-Tlatelolco and its sections reference Mexico’s history (Independence, Reform, and Republic).¹⁹  

Thus, Ciudad Tlatelolco embodied the aspects of classic Modernist design–solid, box-like structures varying only in height, clean lines, prioritizing natural light, and open space were the realization of a priority of function over form. The materials used for construction also complied with Modernist design ideals, mainly using industrial materials like concrete.²⁰ Some motifs were embedded into the walls of the complex as a form of merging images of Mexican tradition and modernity, employing mainly indigenous motifs referencing the country’s pre-Hispanic history within its modern structure.²¹ In some way, Pani was able to combine his Modernist design with the necessities of the people and territory the project was built for. What was originally an obstacle for the project, like the Aztec ruins found on site, eventually also helped integrate the design even more into the existing image of Mexican identity. However, I’d like to highlight this as an effort to redefine modernity as a tool for nationalism, directly tied to a specific political pursuit, which insisted in promoting “the discourse of a continually progressing nation, with rich roots in the past.”²²

For the first few years after its completion, the media and first inhabitants deemed the project, in general, a success.²³ For a few years, Tlatelolco became the symbol of the capital’s progress towards modernity. This, however, would all change as external forces and events in later years transformed the collective image of Tlatelolco for its inhabitants and outsiders alike. Once intended for organized, peaceful, and progressive community building, the solid walls and clean lines of Tlatelolco later became the stage for some of the country’s most devastating events.

The Modernist stage for tragedy: Ciudad Tlatelolco after 1968

On October 2nd, 1968, many college students were trapped, killed, and brutally beaten in Tlatelolco; a death toll that, to this day, remains uncertain, but a rough estimate suggests that hundreds of students died that day. The student movement of 1968—led by students from Mexico’s largest public universities like Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) and Politécnico Nacional— better conditions for students and denounced police violence united workers, students, and activists in protests and meetings that spanned for months. 

Already reprimanded by the government and police in past protests, students planned to meet at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in Tlatelolco after the army had taken the University (UNAM). This was meant to be a peaceful manifestation against the government’s oppressive behavior, as many students were unjustly arrested and imprisoned in past protests. However, the government became aware of the student meeting and, as students and sympathizers alike gave out speeches and read statements about their rights at Tlatelolco, the army surrounded it on direct order of  President Gustavo Díaz Ordáz to “fight back” in whatever means necessary. ²⁴ Tanks, helicopters, and heavily armed soldiers took Tlatelolco, shutting all entrances to the complex and directly opening fire at the strategically trapped students. 

As I write this in 2025, countless texts, films, and various forms of media exist as testimony to the tragic events of October 2nd. Elena Poniatowska’s La noche de Tlatelolco (1971) gathers oral history from students, workers, parents, and others who directly witnessed the massacre, providing vivid detail of the event. Films like Rojo Amanecer (1989) are also available as honest, publicly accessible depictions of that day. However, what happened in Tlatelolco was censored by the government; all communication within the complex was deliberately cut off to prevent news from spreading, leaving many at the time unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what had occurred. Supposedly, what inspired Díaz Ordaz to order violence and allow fatalities as a means to stop the students from protesting was an effort to protect the modern image of Mexico that the political party in rule (PRI) had been building for decades, especially in the context of the spotlight that the 1968 Olympic Games was shining on the country.  Only ten days before the inauguration, the same ideals, image and promise of modernity that built Tlatelolco under the government’s promise to provide a better quality of life for its people was subverted and used against them. Students were silenced and killed in the name of forced order, peace and modernity.

The high walls, contained nature, and central, open recreational spaces of Tlatelolco in Modernist fashion thus became the stage for one of the country’s most devastating events. Blood forever stained Tlatelolco ground, and its inhabitants were directly and permanently affected by it. While it would be unfair to condemn Pani and all others involved in the complex’s design for not preventing this event years in advance, it is necessary to note that its very configuration played heavily  in favor of the army the night of October 2nd. Scholars like Ruben Gallo directly attribute the events of ‘68 to its Modernist design:

I would like to argue that it was Pani’s modernist buildings and his Mexican version of the ville radieuse that made the massacre possible. As critics from Foucault to the Situationists have argued, architecture is a means of exercising control, and nowhere is this more evident than in modernist housing developments, especially the type of megalomaniac projects favored by Mario Pani. The Tlatelolco complex was designed to control the living environment, leisure activities, and even the movements of its inhabitants. The complex featured only a few access points, with gates that could be closed in a few seconds, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. There was only one area in which the crowds could congregate (…) Once the crowds arrived at the Plaza of the Three Cultures, the site became a reverse panopticon. In the standard panopticon, the guard occupies the center and surveys the entire prison population from a single vantage point. In the reverse panopticon, it is the imprisoned crowds, the students, who are at the center and can be observed from every point in the architectural complex. Assembled in the plaza, the students became easy targets because they could be seen, observed, and targeted from every building.²⁶

Although there were no physical or structural changes to the complex, Tlatelolco was forever transformed after the events of ‘68 in public consciousness, transforming the meaning of its design with it. Modernism, in design, ideas, and theory, was then directly associated with the government’s efforts in redefining Mexico’s identity at the cost of hundreds of lives. A direct representation of the oppressive government and censorship, Tlatelolco’s towering buildings now loomed over the city as a mortuary reminder. After the events of October 1968, Ciudad Tlatelolco saw a rise in criminal activity, gang violence, and insecurity;²⁶ all while its inhabitants struggled to upkeep the complex´s maintenance and safety, a task that was not supposed to be theirs to begin with.

Nearly 17 years after the massacre, Tlatelolco would be subject to yet another tragedy on September 19th, 1985. Recorded as the most destructive in Mexico’s recent history, an earthquake measured at 8.1 on the Richter scale hit Mexico City before the clock even hit 8:00 am.²⁷ In a span of 120 seconds, dozens of buildings crumbled down, taking thousands of lives with them, trapping thousands under ruins, and leaving many structures at the brink of collapse. Sadly, Ciudad Tlatelolco suffered the earthquake greatly, as one of its tallest buildings, Edificio Nuevo León_,  fully collapsed, and others were left deeply damaged; eight of which were later subject to demolition.²⁸ Nearly 500 corpses were found in the rubble after the collapse, many of which were identified as entire families.²⁹ Though these lives were not taken by a direct government order, as in 1968, but rather lost to a natural disaster, it must be emphasized that this does not absolve the state or the construction company of responsibility.  Their negligence, corruption, and lack of proper care in building dense residential blocks in the center of a city known for its seismic activity and unstable, muddy soil made this tragedy not only foreseeable but preventable.

Months before the earthquake of ´85 hit Mexico City, the Nuevo León building in Ciudad Tlatelolco displayed a big banner with the residents’ complaints and concerns for the building’s integrity, demanding that authorities take proper care and measures;³⁰ all of which were ignored before the building’s collapse in September. Additionally, upon further investigation, it was found that the construction company in charge of the housing complex opted for using different, cheaper materials to increase profit, which resulted in the buildings not having a proper foundation. Additionally, aspects of the design, such as the height of the structures and the use of pilotis rendered the buildings less earthquake-resistant.³¹ 

After the earthquake in ‘85, many families left Tlatelolco, reducing its population by half to 40,000.³² The incentive for community building embedded in its design was then obstructed by chained paths, collapsing buildings, and empty hallways; a reality far from the lively, tight-knit community Pani and others envisioned. Crime continued to rise within the complex, and maintenance continues to be an issue for its inhabitants to this day. Its gardens are now perpetually overgrown, its walls show visible deterioration, and the atmosphere is still haunted by the gruesome events of its history. 

Still, Ciudad Tlatelolco continues to be home for many in Mexico City, its inhabitants continue to struggle with insecurity, worry for their building’s integrity, and  grapple with building the sense of community the complex was supposed to enable.³³ A study done by Liliana López and Alejandra Toscana in  2016 revealed that 90% of Ciudad Tlatelolco residents know that they live in a high-risk building for earthquakes, a risk that they directly attribute to the buildings’ deterioration and lack of proper maintenance. Additionally, most of the people interviewed reported fear from the high criminal activity and insecure conditions of the complex, apart from the risk posed by earthquakes.³⁴ Fixing these problems, however, is undoubtedly a task for authorities, as residents’ efforts for building community cannot account for decades of negligence and institutional abandonment.  For outsiders and inhabitants alike, Ciudad Tlatelolco is haunted by the lives taken in the unrelenting quest for modernity in Mexico. A quest which would forever be tainted by corruption, violence, and oppression of the people it once promised to protect.

Concluding Thoughts

Modernity in Mexico, as it was ingrained in the design of Ciudad Tlatelolco, is bittersweet at best. As this project and many others serve to illustrate, it is imperative that we understand the complexities underlying the promotion of Modernist ideals in Mexico. The promise of modernity drove the Mexican government’s actions in the twentieth century, which directly promised a better future for the working class. As the years went by, however, the various tragic events and reality of Ciudad Tlatelolco, a monument to modernity, revealed the muddy complexities and true intentions of a government who put an idea of modernity and the possibilities it posed for Mexico’s image over the integrity of its people. While Ciudad Tlatelolco was designed as a vision of progress, its fate was shaped by the economic and political structures that promoted it and then failed to support it. C.T. represents a dedication to modernity at the expense of the necessities and realities of the Mexican people, grounded  in colonial legacies and way of thinking; an effort to model the country’s image after an idea of progress and order designed by the Global North. 

Modernist ideals and design, thus, are tainted by corruption, violence, and oppression in the Mexican collective consciousness with examples like Ciudad Tlatelolco. I argue that Ciudad Tlatelolco should be one of the most important points of focus for Modernist Architecture and Design not only because of its adherence to recognizable Modernist aesthetic features and tendencies, but also because of its particular, complex history; which shows how directly tied to political efforts, social endeavours and lived reality Modern design truly was. Design, architecture, art, and all cultural matters should be analyzed not only through their formal qualities at the moment of conception, but also through the ways they are lived, experienced, and transformed over time.

In the case of Tlatelolco, design served as a tool for both constructing identity and providing housing for those in need; however, it also became a vehicle for violence and loss. To this day, Ciudad Tlatelolco continues to inhabit Mexico City; its design and large size continue to be part of the city’s landscape and memory monumentally, and it will continue to be transformed as years go by. It now stands as concrete witness of the country’s complex struggle with modernity; both a monument for the Modernist ideals that shaped Mexico’s identity, a historical site and a lived reality, where many continue to live among the memory of a thousand others, who will forever roam the halls, paths and gardens of Tlatelolco in spirit — never to be forgotten. 

1. Jazmín Adler, “Imaginarios de modernización latinoamericanos: glorificación tecnológica, utopía e invención en las artes visuales y la literatura de vanguardia”, Revista de Artes y Letras, 2019, 94. ↩︎
2. Liliana López, “Mario Pani: De la Ciudad Imaginada a la Ciudad Habitada”, Topofilia, Revista de Arquitectura, Urbanismo y Territorios, 2019, 8-9. ↩︎
3. Alfonso Valenzuela-Aguilera, “Metáforas de la modernidad: Mario Pani en México”, Ciudad y Territorio. Estudios Territoriales.  2020. 299. ↩︎
4.  ibid, 300. ↩︎
5. Alan Macías. La Gran Ciudad de Mario Pani. La construcción de la Ciudad de México a través de los multifamiliares (Santiago: Pontificia Universidad Catolica de Chile, 2019), 2. ↩︎
6. Jaime Sarmiento, “Los multifamiliares en Ciudad de México: laboratorios urbanos y arquitectónicos”, Academia XXII, 2023, 201. ↩︎
7. Liliana López, “Mario Pani: De la Ciudad Imaginada a la Ciudad Habitada”, Topofilia, Revista de Arquitectura, Urbanismo y Territorios, 2019, 10. ↩︎
8. Liliana López and Alejandra Toscano. “Vulnerabilidad en Tlatelolco a tres décadas de los sismos de 1985”, Politica y Cultura, 2016, 140. ↩︎
9. Sarah Beckhart, “Loco Tlatelolco:” The Conflicting Past of this Historic Neighborhood, 1960-1964”, The Latin Americanist, 2021, 435. ↩︎
10. ibid, 436-437. ↩︎
11. Jaime Sarmiento, “Los multifamiliares en Ciudad de México: laboratorios urbanos y arquitectónicos”, Academia XXII, 2023,  208-209. ↩︎
12.  ibid, 207. ↩︎
13. Alan Macías. La Gran Ciudad de Mario Pani. La construcción de la Ciudad de México a través de los multifamiliares, (Santiago: Pontificia Universidad Catolica de Chile, 2019), 3. ↩︎
14. Liliana López, “Mario Pani: De la Ciudad Imaginada a la Ciudad Habitada”, Topofilia, Revista de Arquitectura, Urbanismo y Territorios,  2019, 14. ↩︎
15. Rubén Gallo, “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco,” in Telling Ruins in Latin America, ed. Michael J. Lazzara and Vicky Unruh (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 111. ↩︎
16. Jaime Sarmiento, “Los multifamiliares en Ciudad de México: laboratorios urbanos y arquitectónicos”,  Academia XXII, 2023, 209. ↩︎
17. Sarah Beckhart, “Loco Tlatelolco:” The Conflicting Past of this Historic Neighborhood, 1960-1964”, The Latin Americanist, 2021, 440. ↩︎
18. ibid, 438. ↩︎
19. Alejandra Toscana and Alma Villaseñor. “La configuración del Paisaje de Tlatelolco, Ciudad de México”, Estudios Socioterritoriales. Revista de Geografia, 2018, 150. Translated from Spanish to English by Lucía González.  ↩︎
20. Mely Morfin, “Clásicos de Arquitectura: Conjunto Habitacional Nonoalco Tlatelolco/Mario Pani”, Arch Daily, 2015. ↩︎
21. Sarah Beckhart, “Loco Tlatelolco:” The Conflicting Past of this Historic Neighborhood, 1960-1964”, The Latin Americanist, 2021, 433.  ↩︎
22.  ibid, 435 ↩︎
23. Sarah Beckhart, “Loco Tlatelolco:” The Conflicting Past of this Historic Neighborhood, 1960-1964”, The Latin Americanist, 2021, 441. ↩︎
24. Rubén Gallo, “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco”, in Telling Ruins in Latin America, ed. Michael J. Lazzara and Vicky Unruh (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 111-112. ↩︎
25. Rubén Gallo, “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco” in Telling Ruins in Latin America, ed. Michael J. Lazzara and Vicky Unruh (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 113. ↩︎
26. Liliana López and Alejandra Toscano. “Vulnerabilidad en Tlatelolco a tres décadas de los sismos de 1985”, Politica y Cultura, 2016, 143.  ↩︎
27. Rubén Gallo, “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco”, in Telling Ruins in Latin America, ed. Michael J. Lazzara and Vicky Unruh (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 114.  ↩︎
28. S. Gonzalez-Karg, “Nonoalco Tlatelolco: A Human Experience”, Journal of Professional Issues in Engineering, 1988, 483.  ↩︎
29. Alejandra Toscana and Alma Villaseñor. “La configuración del Paisaje de Tlatelolco, Ciudad de México”, Estudios Socioterritoriales. Revista de Geografia, 2018, 146.  ↩︎
30. Liliana López and Alejandra Toscano. “Vulnerabilidad en Tlatelolco a tres décadas de los sismos de 1985”, Politica y Cultura, 2016, 144. ↩︎
31. Rubén Gallo, “Modernist Ruins: The Case Study of Tlatelolco” in Telling Ruins in Latin America, ed. Michael J. Lazzara and Vicky Unruh (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 114.  ↩︎
32. Alejandra Toscana and Alma Villaseñor. “La configuración del Paisaje de Tlatelolco, Ciudad de México”, Estudios Socioterritoriales. Revista de Geografia, 2018, 147. ↩︎
33. José Guadalupe Martínez and Citlali Reza, “Tlatelolco. Decadencia urbana y arquitectónica de un proyecto simbólico del Modernismo”, Gremium. Revista de restauracion arquitectonica, 2020, 37.  ↩︎
34. Liliana López and Alejandra Toscano. “Vulnerabilidad en Tlatelolco a tres décadas de los sismos de 1985”, 2016,  Politica y Cultura, 151.  ↩︎

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