March for "The Disappeared" (30,000 still missing)

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Marche de los Madres

The Day Before . . .

A day of exploring the city of Buenos Aires leads us to the city center. We end up at Casa Rosada which is the Argentine's version of White House, without the lawn or green areas, but with just as much security. The photographer in me wanted to capture this landmark for my journal. However, there were several gates up preventing us from getting a good shot. As I struggled in vain, we were approached by a friendly cop that told us about a protest that would be happening tomorrow in Plaza de Mayo, and directed us to where they were setting up.

In the middle of the plaza, there is a huge tower constructed solely of metal pipes with a banner full of black and white photos of people, most of them appearing to be young adults. The sign said 1500 Jueves, which means 1,500 Thursdays, and has something to do with these people, who I am assuming are dead. As we circle the tower, we meet two Portenos, Diego and Mathias, who seemed eager to give us a bit of information. I inquired about the protest and they explained that in the 1970-80's, when the country was under harsh military dictatorship, anyone that spoke against the government went missing, often never to reappear again. The smiling and determined faces compiled on all of these photos on the tower are Los Desparacidos or "the Disappeared."

The demonstration the following day, organized by Los Madres de los Deparacidos or The Mothers of the Disappeared, was to mark the 30th anniversary of the catastrophic events. I was fascinated. I know the Argentines to be passionate people, ready to fight for their beliefs. Personally, I have seen many televised protests including the Anti-Bush protest when the U.S. president descended upon Mar del Plata and the city went wild. No one was hurt but the message was clear. However, because the tragedy of Los Desparacidos happened decades ago, tomorrow would be more a rally to remember rather than a fight for change (they have a democracy now). All of my family members reading this, however, know we come from a revolutionary matriarch, so this type of thing gets me going, so I know I had to be there to check it out.


The Day of the March . . .

We exit the station named Catedral, which is located in the city center where we were the day before. As soon as we hit street level, we can barely recognize Plaza de Mayo, which is across from Casa Rosada and where the rally was being held. There were so many people shouting and flags waving. I was instantly inspired. I walked up front, where a mother of one of Los Desparacidos was addressing the crowd. She was elderly, like many of the mothers, as this happened close to 30 years ago, but the passion in her voice showed a spirit stronger than most. She spoke Spanish, or castellano as it’s called here, but it was hard for me to follow because the subject matter was so deep. Her voice was raspy from screaming, but so full of pain and determination that Nicole and I had goose bumps, and at one part I almost cried. The crowd would burst into loud cheers and cries whenever she drove her point home, sometimes punctuating it with a fist in the air. There were flags, some with photos of Chè, others with tributes to Los Desparacidos, waving in the air. Some bore slogans of determination like the ubiquitous Resistir es Combatir.


All of the mothers were seated in front, and wore white scarves or babushkas as Nicole called them, and there were several news stations covering the event, as well as those like me who was merely grasping for a piece of understanding/clarity of this catastrophic event in recent history. The mother addressed the crowd and I found myself clapping, and shouting along, and totally swept up in the cry of pain, the grief of loss, and the desire for change. I wish Americans believed in something that we could band together and speak against. But as Nicole pointed out, the only person you’ll see does that in the US are those who are anti-abortion (pro-lifers) and are usually men who park themselves in front of clinics.

The Madre finished addressing the crowd which signified the close of the rally, and all of Las Madres embraced one another amongst raucous cheers, waving flags, and flashing bulbs. The moments were powerful yet surprisingly tender, and it was great to see some smiles on the tear streaked faces framed by soft, white scarves. The rally ended up with a march to the home of Las Madres, which I am assuming is their office. The mothers all stood behind a banner that they held together, and before the procession began, several people, professionals and civilians gathered to take photos, until one of the few people doing crowd control, told us to clear the way, but we can join in the procession toward the back. Nicole and I joined but only after we followed the sounds of the most powerful drums outside of Africa. We took a few photos of a group of teenage drummers, the shirtless boys in baseball caps, surrounding one female drummer in a visor and tee shirt, and followed behind them as this crowd of several thousand starts walking slowly down a main avenue which has been closed off for the day.

We don’t get very far before I see the crowd about 20 feet in front of us start to spread out creating an "eye" which can only mean one thing . . . RIOT!! Next thing we know, people start pushing and running, and instinct just takes over. Instead of turning around and running back down the avenue which would assure trampling or being trampled, I instead scream, "Run, Nicole!", and push her toward the side so we can get to the sidewalk and avoid the rush of thousands barreling down on us, and maybe have some stability of a building so we don’t get knocked down. She turns and starts running but as soon as we get to the sidewalk we see the chest-high metal fence erected at each corner of major avenues to discourage jaywalking. What to do, what to do . . . Nicole looks at me, panic stricken, for guidance and I just yell , "Jump it!" She quickly scales the fence and is across in no time. I on the other hand, am not so lucky.

I try to jump the fence, but my elephant leg pants get caught on the spikes and I’m trapped! Without thinking of my physical safety, I quickly pass her my camera just so I can find another way. I see that the gate ends just 5 feet away, and I quickly stay close to it, and I walk to where it ends and to the other side on the sidewalk and off of the street. And just as quickly as that . . . the rioting stops, people stop running, and all is calm. Or calmer than 30 seconds ago. A man is saying tranquilo, tranquilo to a few people but I can’t hear much over the sound of my racing heartbeat or Nicole’s knocking knees. Our eyes are wide, our palms are sweaty, and we both realize we’d had enough. So we sit on a bench to steady our nerves, and thank GOD for not making it worse as the crowd was full of young children, one of whom we were stealing shots of when the melee began.

We took a few more photos of the now empty plaza, which allowed us better views of the posters and murals. A guy came up to us and asked if we wanted to photograph a babushka with the words Resistir es Combatir and we did, and he stayed talking to us, and I asked him for a more detailed view of the story. He said his mother was almost a Desparacido, but she was spared and only spent 15 days in jail while she was pregnant with him. His name is Luciano, and he explained that anyone who spoke against the military dictatorship was hunted down, even pulled from their own homes, and never seen or heard from again. There are theories that they were flown elsewhere, others believe that they may be at the bottom of the Rio Plata, which is the river that separates Buenos Aires from Colonia, Uruguay, but not a single of the 30,000 Desparacidos has been traced nor have their remains ever been found. Kind of makes us U.S. citizens feel very fortunate for our First Amendment rights, and thankfully, Argentina now enjoys a democracy. However, the shadow of this time will cover Argentine political history in a cloud of contrasts, with only one asset that is evident amongst all: perseverance.

**Shima G.

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