Levantarse

They marched, slowly. So slowly.  White hair tied back by white scarves,  bright eyes shining out from behind thick bifocals, 30 elderly women marched. Only the black and white photographs draped around their necks betraying a clue of the history I was witnessing.

I stood; overcome. One hand over my mouth, the other shielding my eyes from the glaring Argentine summer sun,  hiding the tears that threatened to spill out.

In April 1977, the Argentine dirty war was still robbing the country of families and friends. Searching for their ¨disappeared¨children, a group of mothers bonded together and began marching in front of the presidential palace, every Thursday at 3pm, demanding information on their lost children.

Their defiance of the government and courage to make themselves heard gained them international attention and fame, and brought the bloody guerra sucia to the attention of the world. In a time where violence was the only option, these mothers peacefully demonstrated against a government that had murdered their children.

Thirty-two years later, Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo are still marching. Still searching.

Las Madres wear white handkerchiefs with their children´s name embroidered on them, to represent the blankets of their lost children. Standing and watching, tiny tears gliding down my face, I could only think that even though the dirty war is over, and Argentina is rising from the ashes, these women still don't have their children. Their babies are still gone. They´re all in their eighties or nineties now, and the march is painfully slow to match their aging steps. Many have photos of their lost children hung around their necks, with date of birth, date of disappearance, place of disappearance. The three of us slipped quietly into the march, and walked, in a tiny show of support for their life´s work.

You can read about the war, the destruction, the death as much as you want. Go to museums about the desaparecidos and stare in the face of thousands of photographs of those ripped from their homes never to be seen again. But nothing, nothing is the same as looking into the faces of their mothers. Their elderly, activist, mothers, who have spent their whole lives searching and fighting. Would their children even recognize them thirty years later?

Would you still be searching for someone you loved 30 years later?