Testimonies at a human rights trial

September 29

On Wednesday two weeks ago I confirmed that my interest in human rights and my decision to work for the Committee for the Defense of Health, Ethics and Human Rights (CODESEDH) in Buenos Aires was the right decision. For a total of four hours a week, I schlep across down in the 168 to the pink 19^th century looking building where CODESEDH is located. I’m greeted by Sabina or María Ofelia (my supervisor) and I get right to work as a librarian: we’re cataloging and numbering a collection of roughly 1200 magazines, pamphlets and books the organization has produced or collected since roughly 1985. To answer your question - yeah, it’s dusty work. The best part about this admittedly tedious job is chatting with María about topics like the trials going on here against government or military members who ran the secret detention centers around the city from 1976 – 1982 when as many as 20 – 30,000 individuals were detained, tortured and, or murdered for being political enemies of the state. As we drink maté and I work on the computer with a stack of literature from the United Nations or Defence for Children International, I’d felt detached from the reality of the topic of human rights. That was until Wednesday morning. I’d arranged to go to a public session of a trial against a number of repressors affiliated with the detention site known as ESMA (the acronym in English translates to Mechanical School of the Navy).

El edificio de Tribunales near Retiro in BA on a rainy morning. As I looked for the room where the trial was, I passed many cuffed and escorted defendants - it felt like a movie set until I realized I was in a justice building.

I arrived in Retiro via subte early to walk the last few blocks in this industrial part of town to the Tribunal building. After having my documentation checked out and accredited I was instructed it is prohibited to use cameras, recorders or to demonstrate while in the trial. That wasn’t surprising. The room was in the subsuelo (basement) of the building and I seated myself in the back of the room with other members of the public. The trial was running late (typical in Argentina), but I was far from bored. A man named Adolfo had sat down next to me and as we were both alone we began to make small talk after noticing our phones were identical. After asking me if I’d had family involved in the testimony that was going on that day, he told me a story about his son. On 8 December 1977 his family was taking mass at a church south of the main government district. His son – probably ten at the time, sneaked out of the service and took a walk a few blocks away. All of a sudden, armed men appeared, threw a bound and blindfolded person in a trunk and shot another. Needless to say his son fled back to the church. Adolfo’s son is just one of the many to testify as a witness or victim of the state conducted kidnappings in that era.

When the trial began, the first witness of the day was called in. Her name was Elizabeth and she is approximately Mom’s and Dad’s age. Her testimony was being added to the evidence against a collection of navy personnel responsible for human rights violations. One such individual was there - until a few years ago he'd been on the run in Mexico, eluding capture. One morning when Elizabeth was 17, she awoke to a man with a machine gun from the military on the landing who told her, “Nena te vamos a llevar.” We’re taking you girl. She was blindfolded as her mother screamed and they put her in a van with other people a few of whom she was able to recognize. They drove away and eventually she arrived at (what she now knows was) the Mechanical School of the Navy. She was put in a room by herself in the basement and always wore a blindfold. At the time, she’d been dating an architect student named Luis and she soon learned that she was taken in because they wanted to capture Luis. They threatened her life at gunpoint on several occasions and she was physically tortured as they asked her about the political activities of her and Luis. The only time she cried throughout the whole experience was when her captors told her they would release her. She broke down. And just as they said they would, they dropped her on a street corner and sped away. She sat in a café to regain her wits and then took a cab home. For her, the trauma “only” lasted 3 days. Luis was captured and released sometime later, but many of their acquaintances in their group of politically interested youth were never seen again. Her story is one of thousands like it.

 This theme remains present in the consciousness of Argentines whether through trials like these or work of organizations like the one where I volunteer, CODESEDH.