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<div class="entry-date">Weekend Edition February 7-9, 2014<br>
<a class="moz-txt-link-freetext" href="http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/02/07/torture-democracy-and-memory-in-argentina/">http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/02/07/torture-democracy-and-memory-in-argentina/</a><br>
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<div class="subheadlinestyle"><b><big>No Sugarplums for Christmas</big></b></div>
<h1 class="article-title">Torture, Democracy and Memory in Argentina</h1>
<div class="mainauthorstyle">by CELILIA GONZÁLEZ</div>
<div class="main-text"><big> </big>
<p><big><big><i>Translator’s Note<br>
</i></big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big><i>This article about the ongoing trauma of Argentina’s
dictatorship by Cecilia González won first prize in a contest organized
by the former Navy Mechanical School (ESMA), Argentina, which is now
the Space for Memory. The purpose of the competition is to contribute
to the construction of material that promotes collective memory and the
meaning of democracy within society. As González describes, Argentina
is the only country in the world that, after some uncertain starts, has
systematically tried crimes against humanity of a past regime. – PT</i></big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos Loza didn’t celebrate Christmas in 1976 with a
sugarplum.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>There was no roast, no cold veal, and no nougat. Not even
a fruit salad for pudding. No possibility of celebrating a toast with
wine, champagne, or cider. He only swallowed one sugarplum, something
he’d hardly been able to hold in his shackled hand, and he couldn’t
even see it because the hood covered his eyes. Carlos was being held in
the Navy Mechanical School (ESMA), and there he spent the bitterest
year’s end of his life.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>For Carlos the lonely, tiny piece of candy revealed the
depths – in all the word’s meanings – his tormentors could reduce him
to at any moment. He was 23 years old and his family did not know what
had happened to him. He lived with his mother in Villa Tesei. She spent
the holidays searching for him, in desperation. His brother had been
stationed in Campo de Mayo, performing his military service. The
sugarplums the guards gave to all the prisoners seemed to be a sick
joke: after that they did not know if they were going to kill them.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos was taken to the Navy Mechanical School (ESMA)
early in the morning on 17 December 1976. The day before, in the
afternoon, a gang of youths had kidnaped him from the Communist Party
branch offices in Barracas, together with some fellow port workers from
Buenos Aires. They bound their hands, covered their heads, and piled
them into an ambulance. On arriving at the extermination center, they
were given identification numbers. Carlos Loza: 738; Héctor Guelfi:
739; Rodolfo Picheni: 740; and Oscar Repossi: 741. A basement torture
session served as their welcome to ESMA. They lost track of time.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Today, almost 37 years after his kidnap, Carlos is a
diligent witness to the hearings in the third court case about the
crimes committed in Latin America’s most emblematic of clandestine
prisons. Usually he sits in the public hearing room. He listens
attentively to every testimony. He weaves together the victims’
stories. Above all else, he is part of the group making sure the guilty
face justice.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“I have been able to know in greater detail the stories of
the fallen <i>compañeros</i> of the ESMA,” says Carlos one morning
with a proud smile that intensifies a heavenly, wide-eyed expression.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p align="center"><big><big>***</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>By the middle of 2013, Argentina had concluded 104 trials
for crimes against humanity. Among eleven still ongoing trials, there
is one known as ESMA III, a case that involves the largest number of
victims (789), torturers (68), and witnesses (930). The first ESMA
trial, ESMA I, began in 2007 but was suspended because of the cyanide
poisoning of the only person accused, prefect Héctor Febres. By
contrast, the second ESMA trial, ESMA II, finished in 2011 with life
sentences against twelve torturers, thanks to the testimony of 160
witnesses (Carlos among them). Another four were found guilty and
sentenced to prison for 18 to 24 years, with acquittals for two more.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>This sixty-year-old man – who always carries a folder or
notebook under his arm – testified in the third ESMA trial. Focused, he
told the story yet one more time. A story about kidnap and torture that
he doesn’t think of as just his own, but of belonging to society.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“Around the 23 December 1976 we managed to figure out what
the day was,” he recalled at court – because I knew the dates of the
final football championship. When I heard someone say that Boca had
one, that’s when I knew what day it was.”</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Days in the ESMA revolved around the darkness of the
torture chambers, the guards’ unending shouts and threats, the pain
from the handcuffs on the wrists and the shackles around the ankles.
Resting was impossible. The prisoners sucked on bread because they had
been so badly beaten up they could not chew food. For Carlos and his <i>compañeros</i>
sleep came from exhaustion, but uncertainty never left them. Sometimes
they spoke, when they were transferred to the “Capuchita” where there
were fewer prisoners. If the guards caught them whispering among
themselves or with other prisoners, they would hit them. In captivity
Carlos came to know Hernán Abriata, a member of the Peronist Youth in
the Faculty of Architecture. “I am a prisoner like you all, as you’ll
find out,” said the young, still disappeared man. He was trying to
console them: they wore hoods of a different color to his, a sign they
weren’t going to be killed.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“We spoke to each other to find out our names, who we
were. There was a tacit agreement: whoever gets out of here has to tell
the story. We promised each other because you had to see how it was to
not become terrified. That’s what the killers wanted. There’s a place
where they can’t win, and it’s called the mind, so you shouldn’t infect
others with fear. Not everybody managed it. Some left the ESMA
terrified. They even forgot their own names. They quit working, stopped
being activists. But we felt we had to tell what we’d seen because it
concerned our dignity.”</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>The kidnapped lived through things that would give them
nightmares for the rest of their lives. Carlos once heard a prisoner
say, “Nothing’s going to happen to you because you’re pregnant.” Today
the port unionist is still investigating who that woman might have been.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>From his interrogators he learned of a young priest with a
bright future. The priest was told he should collaborate because his
father was dying and his family tremendously missed him. That he could
go free if he revealed what he knew, giving up his <i>compañeros</i>’
names. Many years later Carlos managed to find out that the priest was
Pablo María Gazzarri whose disappearance forms part of the ESMA case.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>On 6 January 1977 a guard called Carlos and his <i>compañeros</i>
by number. He told them they were going to be set free. He removed
their shackles, handcuffs, and hoods. Carlos and Rodolfo were put
together in a grey Falcon. Héctor and Oscar went separately, in two
other vehicles. The workers from Buenos Aires thought they were being
freed but they also feared a trick to kill them. They left them in
different parts of Buenos Aires, after telling them they had ended up
in ESMA for collaborating with the Montoneros.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos withdrew from activism for a few months. He was
afraid. But bit-by-bit he began to meet up with his <i>compañeros</i>
from the port. In 1979 they were already calling for strikes and a
return to politics. That’s what resistance was like until 1983, when
Argentines resurrected their democracy.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p align="center"><big><big>***</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Democracy brought with it faltering first steps to bring
the torturers to justice. Judgments came down against the governing
juntas, followed by pardons and decades of impunity. The stalemate
continued until 2003 when Congress and the Supreme Court struck down
the End Point and Due Obedience Laws, meaning that the judicial
processes could restart, now en masse, against many more accomplices,
not just against those at the top of the chain of command. Ever since
then, Argentina has been the only country in the world to
systematically try crimes against humanity.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>For each trial to end with a guilty verdict, survivors’
testimony proves crucial. It’s never easy for any of the survivors,
even those who are experienced human rights activists. It’s not easy to
testify in the presence of torturers and murderers.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“Their sitting in front of us is a new torture. It makes
you feel uncomfortable, threatened,” Carlos adds.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>When the unionist appeared at hearings for the second ESMA
trial, Ricardo Miguel Cavallo, a former marine and director of the
clandestine prison, sat just a few steps away. Cavallo was engrossed in
his computer screen, bearing the evasive attitude he maintained at
every hearing. At the third ESMA trial, Carlos spoke in front of Juan
Carlos Rolón, but he only realized it later after he had accused him of
being a rapist, an allegation that would weigh against the former
lieutenant more than torturer or murderer.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>The trials afford relief, an easing for the witnesses.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“They help us mend,” recognizes Carlos, “but in a
contradictory way. Justice has come very late and what’s happened
cannot be repaired. When they issue rulings, you celebrate, but you
also think that it would be better if the murdered or disappeared <i>compañero</i>
could be by your side. It’s a pain that nobody can heal.”</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>The ever-present pain prevents many survivors from even
getting close to the Navy Mechanical School (ESMA).</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos was one of those. After his kidnapping, he always
avoided walking down those streets, especially if it was night. Things
changed on 24 March 2004 when Nestor Kirchner offered the state’s
apology in front of thousands of people, ordering that the clandestine
prison should be turned into a Space for Memory. On that day Carlos
braved entering the place where he had been kidnapped and tortured,
together with his friends. Overcome by tension, by the memories, but
supported by his wife and their two children, he walked about Capucha
and Capuchita. He observed a change in the color of a window, the
stairs, and the back of the water tank where he spoke to Hernán
Abriata, the disappeared man who gave him hope during his captivity. He
baptized his only son in honor of Hernán.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos’s tour around ESMA was sufficient. He will never go
back. It was too heavy on his spirit. It had been terrifying
remembering that in this place neither justice, nor God. Nothing
existed there, only the remains of a human being, civilization in
retreat.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>“It provokes deep thought. The concentration camp
diminishes a human being, so one values little things like being able
to move your hands around your body. A lot of pain comes with the
retreat to primordial times: fighting for food, the loss of dignity,
behaving like an animal.”</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos recognizes that part of Argentina’s society does
not understand the importance of trials for crimes against humanity.
There are those who insist that this is past history. Yet all the while
the victims, their family members, human rights organizations and other
groups have constructed a historical narrative that explains those
crimes from the perspective of those who were involved.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>That’s why Carlos attends most of three-times a week
hearings held in Comodoro Py. He takes note of the testimonies. He
looks over the witness lists. He puts together lines of investigation.
He discovers the names and numbers of victims whose files can be joined
to future processes. He describes operations, dates of kidnappings and
names. He uncovers photos of the disappeared. He criticizes the defense
witnesses. He proposes measures to speed up the trials, like grouping
cases into one procedure, analyzing events according to chronology, to
line them up with dates of captivity in the ESMA. Patiently he waits
for the judgment to be handed down, by the latest at the end of 2014.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p align="center"><big><big>***</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Carlos can tell many stories about the twenty-one days he
spent in the Navy Mechanical School. But there’s one that scarred him.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>One prisoner was delirious. He wouldn’t eat, and he took
off his hood, so they hit him. He asked to see his father. “First
officer, Montonero, doctor,” he shouted to identify himself. A guard
kicked him until he killed him. He covered his corpse with a blanket,
leaving it for hours beside Carlos and his friends. Five years ago
Carlos got to know a woman named Alejandra Mendé who told him about the
disappearance of her bother, Jorge. When they started to piece things
together, they discovered that he was the same man that he and his
friend had seen die. There hadn’t been many doctors who were first
officers in the Montoneros.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Rodolfo Picheni, the port worker freed in the same Falcon
as Carlos, never overcame his kidnapping and torture, nor of being an
impotent witness to Mendé’s murder. Depression pursued him and worsened
every time a new anniversary of his kidnapping came around. On 5
December 2012 a little after the third ESMA hearings began he hanged
himself. “Now I am going to be number 30,0001. I’ll be taking care of
them,” he wrote in a note.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>Since 1976, end of the year celebrations have always been
particularly nostalgic for Carlos. But his friend’s suicide last year
saddened him. He didn’t let it overcome him. He celebrated Christmas
and the New Year with his family, as is his custom. He dined. He
toasted. He laughed.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big>He did all those things. But he’s never tasted a sugarplum
again.</big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big><a href="https://www.facebook.com/cecilia.gonzalez.92317"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://www.facebook.com']);"><b><i>Cecilia
González</i></b></a><i> is a foreign correspondent for NOTIMEX based in
Argentina. Her book, “</i><a
href="http://www.cuspide.com/9789871307814/Narcosur/"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://www.cuspide.com']);"><i>Narcosur:
la sombra del narcotráfico mexicano en la Argentina,” was published by
Marea in 2013</i></a><i>. This prize-winning article first appeared in
Spanish under the title, “Sin confites de navidad,” available at: </i><a
href="http://www.espaciomemoria.ar/noticia.php?not_ID=378&barra=noticias&titulo=noticia"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://www.espaciomemoria.ar']);"><i>http://www.espaciomemoria.ar/noticia.php?not_ID=378&barra=noticias&titulo=noticia</i></a><i>.</i></big></big></p>
<big><big></big></big>
<p><big><big><i>Translator </i><a
href="http://www.linkedin.com/pub/patrick-timmons/79/3a0/920"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://www.linkedin.com']);"><b><i>Patrick
Timmons</i></b></a><i> is a human rights investigator and journalist.
He edits the </i><a
href="http://mexicanjournalismtranslationproject.wordpress.com"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://mexicanjournalismtranslationproject.wordpress.com']);"><i>Mexican
Journalism Translation Project (MxJTP)</i></a><i>, a quality selection
of Spanish-language journalism about Latin America rendered into
English. Follow him on Twitter </i><a
href="http://twitter.com/patricktimmons"
onclick="javascript:_gaq.push(['_trackEvent','outbound-article','http://twitter.com']);"><i>@patricktimmons</i></a><i>.</i></big></big></p>
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