Though my parents were German (and my father was even a Nazi), I am Argentine. My experiences under the dictatorship sealed my identity forever. As my Argentina bled, so I did. As my country struggles to understand, I do as well. A started as a journalist; now I’m a writer of books. In fiction, I try to come to terms with the history this nation has seen; given where we are today, sometimes the junta seems like a faraway memory.
And maybe it was, because we have been free from dictatorship for over thirty years. But still, I see the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, and I walk by addresses where people were tortured. Thirty years is a lifetime, but I remember it, and now, our duty is to keep remembering. We must write, teach and talk; we must ensure that the crimes that I lived through are known for generations to come, so that we may say, as they say of the crimes of my own father, “never again.”