Mexico City is at it again, chasing a new world record for the largest human wave. Thousands packed the Zócalo on Saturday, arms flailing in orchestrated surges, a spectacle that would make any Roman emperor blush with envy. Yet as I watched the coverage, a question gnawed at me: is this genuinely Mexican? Or is it another copy‑paste of imported frivolity, a borrowed bauble from the global entertainment bazaar?
Consider the historical resonance. The human wave, la ola, first appeared in North American stadiums in the 1980s. It is a sterile, industrialised celebration: a mechanical sequence devoid of spontaneity, nothing like the chaotic joy of a traditional fandango. By seeking this particular record, Mexico City aligns itself with a globalised monoculture that prizes homogeneity over heritage. We are not celebrating Mexican ingenuity; we are paying homage to a Californian export.
The event itself is a masterclass in intellectual vapidity. Thousands stand for hours, waiting to be told when to stand, when to cheer, when to sit. It is the triumph of bureaucracy over soul. The government, ever eager for a distraction from its myriad failures, pours resources into this stunt while schools crumble and hospitals strain under the weight of neglect. This is not a celebration of la mexicanidad; it is a carnival of emptiness.
Some will argue that any gathering that fosters civic pride is worthwhile. But civic pride built on borrowed rituals is hollow. True pride comes from shared struggles, from the richness of our own traditions: the Day of the Dead, the mariachi serenade, the intricate dance of the Voladores. These are treasures that cannot be replicated by a mass‑produced wave.
I am not opposed to record‑breaking. I oppose the loss of identity. Let us invent our own spectacles, ones that reflect our unique history and temperament. Let us not be mere imitators in the global circus. Until then, I remain sceptical, pen in hand, watching the masses rise and fall in perfect, soulless unison.
