It began almost as quietly as it ended, though the weight of what transpired in those nine days will echo through Mexico for years to come. While much of the world watched other headlines unfold, the Mexican Congress became the stage for one of the most far-reaching legislative surges in its modern history. In just over a week, the Morena-led majority, backed by President Claudia Sheinbaum’s immense political capital, introduced and passed sixteen separate pieces of legislation. The laws themselves were sweeping. Their collective impact is more sweeping still. Together, they mark what many believe to be the most excellent centralization of state power since the era of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, when governance often blurred the line between stability and authoritarianism. Inside the legislative chambers, the mood was one of urgency.
Sheinbaum’s coalition, a year off from a decisive electoral triumph, saw in its majority not simply a mandate, but an opportunity. Each bill brought forward was presented as a necessary correction to a system long in need of reform. One bill created a national biometric registry, requiring that every citizen provide iris scans, fingerprints, facial images, and other personal data to be linked to their CURP identification. Another dismantled the longstanding autonomy of telecommunications and competition regulators, placing them directly under executive control. Still another expanded the military’s authority to access civilian geolocation data in real time. Privacy advocates and legal scholars raised objections. Still, their voices were largely drowned out in the echo chamber of political momentum.
The pace was breathtaking. Laws were introduced, debated, and passed in mere hours. Pages of legal text, often numbering in the hundreds, were delivered to legislators with little time for review. Dissenting lawmakers struggled to keep up, and their speeches met with indifference. Even seasoned opposition figures, many of whom had witnessed legislative overreach in decades past, expressed astonishment at how efficiently the process had been engineered. There was no need for arm-twisting or compromise. The numbers were already in place.
Supporters of the reforms pointed to Mexico’s chronic problems as justification. Organized crime remained a persistent and brutal force across the country. Homicide rates remained high. Government institutions were widely seen as inefficient, corrupt, or incapable of delivering meaningful results. In this context, Sheinbaum’s government positioned itself as the instrument of transformation. By consolidating state power and streamlining bureaucratic functions, they argued, the government could finally respond to the needs of ordinary citizens. It was a message that resonated, especially in communities where insecurity had rendered daily life precarious. People were tired of promises. They wanted action.
Yet it was precisely this consolidation of power that alarmed critics. Human rights organizations within Mexico and abroad issued statements warning that the reforms, particularly those granting broad surveillance powers to the military and intelligence services, could easily be abused. The creation of a centralized biometric database raised concerns about identity theft, the misuse of personal data, and the erosion of civil liberties. Unlike prior attempts to establish such a database, this version lacked precise judicial oversight mechanisms or robust avenues for public appeal. Once your biometric data was entered, there was no way to know who could access it or why.
Other changes were more symbolic, but no less significant. The judiciary, once a complex check on executive power, underwent structural modifications to allow for more direct political influence. Justices who had once enjoyed considerable independence now found their future appointments in the hands of a single party majority. The line between justice and politics, already thin, grew fainter still.
What unfolded in Congress was not entirely without precedent. Throughout Mexico’s modern history, there have been instances when the executive branch has sought to expand its influence, particularly during times of national crisis. But the breadth and simultaneity of the current reforms set this moment apart. There was no declared emergency or national disaster to justify the use of emergency powers. The reforms were not framed as temporary measures, but as permanent recalibrations of how Mexico governs itself.
For many, it was precisely this quietness, this bureaucratic swiftness, that was most unsettling. There were no tanks in the streets, no fiery speeches calling for the dismantling of democracy. There was only the calm, procedural efficiency of a government confident in its power and sure of its direction. To those watching closely, it served as a reminder that the most profound changes in governance often occur not through dramatic coups or revolutions, but through the steady accumulation of laws and the gradual, deliberate reshaping of institutions.
Reactions among the public have been mixed. In the northern industrial cities, business leaders expressed concern over the weakening of autonomous regulators, fearing a return to state favoritism and the erosion of transparent competition. In rural areas, where state services are often intermittent or absent altogether, the promise of more centralized control was received with cautious hope. Some citizens welcomed the idea of a biometric ID system, believing it could streamline access to health care, welfare, and law enforcement. Others worried that the very same system could be used to monitor dissent or target vulnerable communities.
In Washington, Brussels, and other foreign capitals, the reforms were met with quiet unease. Mexico’s democratic progress over the past two decades had been a point of cautious optimism among policymakers. Independent courts, regulatory agencies, and a pluralistic Congress had begun to take root. Now, those gains seemed at risk. Investors watched nervously, unsure of whether the political shifts would lead to greater economic stability or renewed volatility. For allies in the fight against organized crime, there was concern that an increasingly opaque security apparatus could make cooperation more difficult, not less.
Yet Sheinbaum’s government remains defiant. Officials insist that the reforms are necessary, overdue, and supported by a clear majority of voters. They argue that democratic legitimacy does not reside solely in the architecture of institutions, but in the ability of those institutions to deliver for the people. They point to the failures of previous administrations and ask, with some justification, what precisely the old system had accomplished. Violence remained high. Corruption remained entrenched. Poverty, though reduced, still defined much of the country. If a stronger central state was the price of progress, they suggested, then perhaps it was a price worth paying.
Whether that price is too high will be determined not by words but by outcomes. If crime rates fall, if services improve, and if governance becomes more efficient, the government’s position may be vindicated. However, if abuses persist, if data is misused, and if courts become politicized, then the reforms of 2025 may come to be remembered not as a turning point toward stability, but as the first step down a darker path.
For now, the legislative blitz has come to an end. The ink is dry. The new laws are now in effect. What remains is the slow, unfolding question of what kind of country they will shape, and whether the Mexican people will find in them the safety and justice they have long been promised or the silence of rights slowly slipping away.
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