I’ve just finished pecking at some breakfast with Ricardo before he catches the school bus. It’s almost 9 am. I am 44. I now live with my son, just us two, in a frankly beautiful and well-kept home back in Argentina. Angelica is still gone, our car missing from the driveway, with no sign of her returning anytime soon. I still write but with nothing published out there. I’ve always been writing, you know. Ever since those early days…little Nachito, restless yet secretive Nacho in Buenos Aires and of course desperately creative Nacho in New York City. But it was during my rural American episode about, what, almost 15 years ago now, when I realized that trying to bring to light my friend and comrade’s story of abduction and torture to the masses just wasn’t worth it. They won’t understand. And I can’t make it seem like I do either. It’s more important to write it, to write it well, but to at least write it for myself. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since – keeping all these words and experiences to myself. I am content with that because ultimately they are out there somewhere, in notebooks or on scraps of paper hidden away in drawers, instead of remaining bottled up and destructive.
Because while I may continue to change, while my life continues to propel forward at alarming rates, nothing changes for those who have suffered. Who have felt the direct effects of those like Scilingo. The trauma was real, is still real, and no matter how many Scilingos we throw into prison with sentences that span hundreds of years, the pain still remains. It has remained too long to be able to just disappear at the strike of a gavel. If only it were as simple as that.
Nothing changes for them. For all of them – the silenced, the assaulted, the tortured and the disappeared. And the fact that these processes prove to be so painfully slow? What hope does that give anyone? Give them? Close to none, I think. Their country, their Argentina – our Argentina! – has already betrayed them. It’s too late. Let’s stop kidding ourselves with all these excuses for “justice”, with all these proceedings and sentences and demagogue. Because to me it seems like we are just doing this for us, the untouched, lucky few, rather than those who really deserve healing.