The Buenos Aires sun coats the air with a silver sheen days after the autumnal equinox. I had been looking for an unfamiliar light, soft in its cast, gentle as it haloes the world. In the quiet of morning, I get lost in streets that eerily mirror Beirut. Right there is Hamra, except it’s not. Over there is Badaro, except it’s not. In the next neighborhood, Paris, except it’s not. I search for landmarks in old worlds and watch unknown realities collide in a place where much feels untranslatable. The cafés are haunted by the ghost of Borges and I try and fail to sense him beyond the linearity of time.
In the park, Paulo gives an impromptu maté tutorial. For a second, I let myself love the world again but any semblance of normalcy feels unholy. The sheer privilege of being alive and well pricks my chest with small, repeated stabs.
Ceasefire? I think? the group chat pings, but nothing gives. Days later, ceasefire! Eduardo exclaims while checking their phone on our way to a museum. Another hoax. The death tally, the carpet bombing, and the unsanctioned massacres continue their steady increase. Politicians wring their hands while signing off on more weapons and bombs.
The cab driver vents out his frustration at the traffic. I mentally translate bits and pieces of his rant to French and try to fill the gaps: sí, lo sé, I calmly lie. It’s an angry city, says E. Is it angry? Or just deeply in love, and refusing to accept betrayal? To my outsider’s gaze, it looked like a place filled with heartbroken souls pining for a better world and enamored with life and living. The milongas still brim with people across generations eager to tango till dawn. Some restaurants have a stage as part of their set-up where bands perform multiple nights a week. The economy is in tatters, and the anxiety is palpable, but equally present is an obstinate joy lacing its fingers with profound political awareness.
I learn that every Thursday, without fail for the past forty seven years, the mothers of the disappeared gather in Plaza de Mayo across the street from the presidential palace and demand justice for their husbands and sons. They are unrelenting, uncompromising, resolute in their demands regardless of who sits in the palace. In the creases of their silent marches, I let myself love the world again and I remember the mothers of the disappeared in Lebanon.
Last Sunday marked the Day of Remembrance for Truth and Justice commemorating the victims of the junta (1976-1983) during which an estimated 30,000 people were disappeared and killed under Jorge Videla’s dictatorship. We’re carried by a current of protestors thundering La patria no se vende. (the nation is not for sale) in front of the presidential palace where Milei is downplaying the murder tally and demanding justice for those murdered by leftist guerillas. The march brought together a flurry of people holding banners for an array of causes: Trans Rights, Feminists, and of course, Palestine. Banners comparing the junta to the current genocide in Palestine abounded with chants of nunca mas! (never again). It felt particularly poignant knowing the junta claimed the lives of a significant number of dissident Argentine Jews. Unsurprisingly, recently declassified documents reveal Israel supplied weapons to that same dictatorship during the Falkland war. The dots are there for the connecting, and every day the picture sharpens despite a thickening fog of revisionism.
further reading:
On the floor of genocide: sand, shit, decomposing flesh, and odd slippers, by Susan Abulhawa—The Electronic Intifada
Al-Thakla—Arabic as the Original Mourner, by Abdelrahman ElGendy—The Markaz Review
They Ate at My Table, Then Ignored My People, by Reem Kassis—The Atlantic
to walk freely, by Aya Krisht
care is a verb, empathy is not, by Safia Elhillo