The March

There was nothing to signal the start of the march—no drums, no speeches—just the
Madres themselves, the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, their quiet footsteps on the pink bricks of the square. They carried photos: young faces, faces of the Disappeared. And their heads were covered with white handkerchiefs, the names of their missing sons and daughters sewn into the cloth. A banner read 30,000 DESAPARECIDOS PRESENTE. It was easy to translate the 30,000 Disappeared, but presente carried more meaning than its English equivalent, present. One thought of schoolchildren answering a roll call, only instead of children, their mothers were answering it for them.

Across the plaza—fenced off with wire barricades and armed federal police—the Presidential Palace, or Casa Rosada, glowed pink in winter afternoon. On the other sides of the square was the Cathedral, the Colonial Town Hall, the National Bank and Treasury, the heart of Buenos Aires, Argentina. Within this canyon of buildings and the continuous roar of traffic, the march seemed very small.

But as the police looked on with boredom, and the thousands of cars, buses, and pedestrians pulsed through the streets, you could feel something extraordinary happening in this small marching circle. Joining the twenty or so Madres were a hundred other friends, family members, photographers, and journalists from various countries around the world. There were noisy conversations, laughter, and stories.

After filming for several minutes, I fell in line with one of the Madres. She’d been walking the entire time with a shy, sweet smile, almost like a little girl. Around her neck was a sign with two young faces. “Fidela Morel and Alberto Horacio Garcia, Kidnapped July 29, 1976,” it said.

I matched her short steps for a minute, noticing that inside the march, the sound of the traffic and everything else faded away. “What is it that the Madres are seeking?” I asked.

“That there is no more bloodshed,” she said immediately, as if she’d already known my question. Her smile dropped off her face. “That there’ll never again be the need for the pañuelo blanco (the white handkerchief).”

“And how long will you keep marching?” I asked.
Her smile returned. “As long as we live.”

The Madres

Several days before the march, my wife Laura and I visited the office of the Madres to interview Madres President Nora Cortiñas. It was busy that morning. Several women had just come back from a “scratch” in Mar del Plata. (This is when the Madres identify where an officer or militar is living, then put a mark, a scratch on his door.) And Nora was with another group of foreign journalists.

The secretary offered mate, smiling, telling us that it was always hectic like this. In a few minutes, Nora was ready. She was a tiny woman, less than five feet tall, but with blazing eyes that seemed to fill up the room. She kissed each of us on the cheek, then put on her pañuelo and sat down in front of a wall covered with pictures of the Desaparecidos.  Read More...