Luis Donaldo Colosio Riojas is not just fighting to save concrete and steel in Monterrey; he’s defending the remarkably idea that public infrastructure should outlast political cycles. In a move that has sparked both applause and suspicion across Nuevo León, the mayor has proposed a constitutional reform aimed at halting the politically motivated demolition or alteration of public works—a practice so common in Mexican municipal governance it has earned a colloquial label: un capricho personal, a personal whim. What appears on the surface as a technical adjustment to municipal law is, in reality, a direct challenge to a long-standing culture where incoming administrations routinely erase the legacies of their predecessors, not for fiscal or functional reasons, but as symbolic acts of political cleansing.
This isn’t merely about preserving bike lanes or park benches. It’s about breaking a cycle of infrastructural waste that costs Mexican states billions annually and erodes public trust in governance. According to a 2023 study by the Mexican Institute for Competitiveness (IMCO), nearly 30% of public works projects in Mexico undergo significant modification or demolition within the first two years of a new administration taking office—often without technical justification. In Nuevo León alone, IMCO estimates that politically driven alterations to infrastructure have resulted in over 1.2 billion pesos in avoidable expenditures since 2018. Colosio’s proposal seeks to interrupt this pattern by requiring any proposed change to existing public works to undergo a mandatory technical review by an independent civic oversight committee, with findings made public before any action can be taken.
The reform, formally presented to the Monterrey City Council in early April 2026, would amend Article 12 of the Municipality’s Organic Law to establish that “no public perform, once completed and accepted, may be demolished, substantially altered, or rendered non-functional without a binding technical opinion certifying structural unsafety, obsolescence, or imminent public danger.” Crucially, the opinion must be issued by the Municipality’s Technical Secretariat in conjunction with the College of Civil Engineers of Nuevo León, and any dissent must be recorded and published. The measure as well introduces a 60-day public consultation period for any proposed alteration, during which citizens can submit objections or alternatives via a digital platform linked to the city’s open data portal.
Critics, including several municipal union leaders and members of the opposition PRI faction on the council, have warned that the reform could paralyze necessary urban renewal. “We’re not against accountability,” said councilwoman María Guadalupe Sánchez during a heated committee hearing on April 12, “but we need flexibility. What if a bridge becomes unsafe after an earthquake? What if a park needs to be reconfigured for accessibility? This proposal ties our hands with bureaucracy.” Her concerns echo a broader fear among some officials that increased oversight could slow emergency responses or hinder adaptive urban planning.
Yet supporters argue the reform doesn’t eliminate flexibility—it redirects it. “This isn’t about stopping progress; it’s about ensuring progress isn’t illusory,” said Dr. Elena Vargas, urban policy researcher at the Monterrey Institute of Technology and Higher Education (ITESM), in an interview with Archyde on April 20. “When a new administration tears down a recently built bike lane not because it’s flawed, but because it was inaugurated by the other party, that’s not governance—that’s performance art at the public’s expense. What Colosio is proposing is a basic norm: that infrastructure serves citizens, not political narratives.” Vargas pointed to similar reforms in Bogotá and Medellín, where institutionalizing technical oversight reduced politically driven alterations by over 60% within five years, according to data from the Inter-American Development Bank.
The historical precedent is telling. In Mexico, the practice of erasing predecessors’ works dates back to the PRI’s hegemonic era, when incoming governors would often rename highways, repaint public buildings, or demolish monuments as a way of asserting dominance. Though less overt today, the impulse persists—now channeled into canceling bike lanes, removing sculptures, or reconfiguring plazas. In 2021, the incoming administration of Guadalupe, Nuevo León, spent nearly 40 million pesos to remove and replace a series of newly installed LED streetlights in the municipality’s central district, citing “aesthetic incompatibility”—a move widely seen as retaliation against the previous mayor’s urban beautification program. No technical study was ever published justifying the change.
Colosio’s reform, if passed, would mark one of the first times a major Mexican municipality has attempted to codify continuity in public works as a matter of democratic principle rather than mere administrative convenience. It aligns with a growing regional trend: cities like Quito, Ecuador, and Medellín, Colombia, have adopted similar “infrastructure permanence” ordinances in recent years, often paired with citizen auditing mechanisms. The World Bank’s 2024 report on urban resilience in Latin America highlighted such measures as “critical for breaking the cycle of destructive reinvention” and recommended their adoption in mid-to-large cities facing frequent turnover in leadership.
Of course, the true test will come not in the council chambers but in the streets. Will the oversight committee resist political pressure? Will citizens engage with the consultation platform, or will apathy prevail? And most importantly, will future administrations—regardless of party—see the value in preserving what was built, not just for its utility, but as a testament to collective decision-making?
As Monterrey grapples with water scarcity, urban sprawl, and rising inequality, the fate of its public works may seem like a secondary concern. But in a city where trust in institutions is already frayed, the ability to build something that lasts—not just physically, but politically—might be the most urgent infrastructure project of all.
What do you think: should public works be shielded from political whims, or does flexibility in urban design require the freedom to remake, even if it means unmaking? Share your thoughts below—we’re listening.
