A Mother’s Charge

Caution-My short story recaptures sad memories of Argentina’s Dirty Wars of the 1970’s.

A Mother’s Charge

Camila Ávila adjusted the bouquet of white roses in her arms as she guided her two children

through the winding paths of La Recoleta Cemetery. The mausoleums stood like silent sentinels, their stone facades weathered by time, the faint scent of moss and damp stone lingering in the air.

The sky was a bright, indifferent blue, as if unaware of the grief buried beneath it. When they reached the grave of her mother, Teresa Ávila, Camila knelt and placed the flowers gently on the polished marble.

“Who was Abuela Teresa?” her daughter, Sofia, asked, peering up at the carved name.

Camila smiled sadly. “She was a warrior, mi amor. She fought with other mothers so that people like you and I could live in a world where justice means something.”

Her son, Mateo, furrowed his brows. “How did she fight?”

“She walked,” Camila said. “She walked in circles around the Plaza de Mayo with other mothers.

And because of them, the world started to listen.”

As she began to tell them her mother’s story, the past unfolded.

Alejandro Ávila had dreams. He was studying law at the university, an intern law clerk by day

and a student by night. His greatest wish was to become a lawyer and fight for the people who had no voice, the ones who lived under the shadow of an oppressive regime.

But Alejandro had more than just his studies—he had Cristina. She was his love, his future, his safe place. They spent countless hours at El Ateneo Grand Splendid, sipping coffee and wandering through the towering bookshelves, discussing everything from philosophy to justice, their dreams intertwining like the ivy that crawled along the bookstore’s walls. She would often rest her head on his shoulder and whisper, “One day, when you’re a lawyer, you’ll change this country.”

Then, one night, everything changed.

Teresa Ávila tightened the white scarf around her head, her fingers lingering on the embroidered name of her son, Alejandro Ávila, desaparecido, 1977.

The Plaza de Mayo swarmed with mothers like her, each clutching photographs of their vanished children. Some held letters never delivered, others small belongings left behind—the only remnants of lives stolen in the dead of

night.

The air was thick with summer heat, but an eerie chill clung to the silence of the gathered women. The city bustled around them—vendors selling newspapers, buses hissing as they came to stops, pedestrians rushing to escape the midday sun. But Teresa and the other mothers were immovable, their feet tracing the same circular path they had walked for months.The military junta had been in power since 1976, its grip tightening with every passing day.

Dissenters, intellectuals, students—anyone deemed a threat—disappeared without a trace. The dictatorship’s reign of terror was enforced through clandestine operations, secret torture chambers, and the chilling silence of fear. People avoided speaking politics, newspapers printed only what the regime permitted, and at night, whispers of abductions slithered through the city like shadows.

She glanced up at the imposing facade of the Casa Rosada, where the junta orchestrated its rule. Its pink walls betrayed nothing of the horrors concealed within government offices and secret detention centers. The guards posted nearby watched the women with cold indifference, their rifles slung over their shoulders as if they were simply part of the cityscape.

It had been nearly two years since Alejandro was taken. Two years since she had been jolted awake by the violent pounding on her door, since uniformed men had stormed in, tearing her son from his bed. He had been a university student, barely twenty, passionate about justice, about a free Argentina. That night, he had shouted, “Mamá, don’t let them take me!” as they dragged him into the darkness. The words still echoed in her mind, each syllable a wound that would not heal.

She had searched everywhere—police stations, military offices, churches, hospitals. Every door she knocked on had been slammed in her face, every inquiry met with a dismissive “No sabemos nada.” We know nothing. We don’t have him.

But she knew better.

A hand brushed against hers. “Teresa.” It was Elena, another mother who had lost her son. “The foreign journalists are here today. We must make sure they see us.”

Teresa nodded, her grip tightening on Alejandro’s photograph. “They will see. The world must see.”

They continued their silent march, a procession of grief and defiance. Their silence was their weapon, their presence a protest against the regime’s lies. The government called them las locas, the madwomen, but madness would have been to remain silent.

One of the younger mothers suddenly broke formation and stepped toward the guards. “¿Dónde está mi hijo?” she demanded. “Where is my son?”

A soldier shifted his stance, his grip tightening on his weapon. “Señora, go home.”

“No,” she said. “You took him. Bring him back.”

A second soldier murmured something to the first, and Teresa felt the familiar rise of dread. They had been warned before—some of their group had already disappeared. María, who had once stood beside her, was gone. One week she was marching, and the next, her house was empty, her name never spoken again.Teresa pulled the young mother back. “Not here,” she whispered. “We cannot help them if we are taken too.”

The woman’s eyes were wild with grief, but she nodded. They returned to their march, the rhythm of their steps steady and unwavering.

That night, Teresa sat in her dimly lit kitchen, staring at the letter she had received that morning. It was unsigned, slipped under her door at dawn. ESMA.

The letters burned into her mind. Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada. The naval school turned into a clandestine torture center. If Alejandro had been there, it meant he had suffered. It meant he might already be dead.

Her hands trembled as she traced his name on the back of his photograph. She had spent nearly two years searching, and now she was closer than ever—but at what cost? Could she risk pushing further? The government had made it clear what happened to those who asked too many questions.

A knock at the door made her jump. For a moment, her heart stopped. Was this how they had come for Alejandro? Would they take her now, too?

She opened the door cautiously. It was Elena.

“They took another mother today,” she whispered. “Magdalena.”

Teresa closed her eyes. Another name to add to the silence. Another life stolen.

She exhaled sharply and straightened. “Then we march again tomorrow.”

The next day, as Teresa tied her scarf once more, she felt the weight of the fight pressing down on her. But she also felt something else. Resolve. They could call them mad. They could try to erase them, just as they had erased their children. But they would not be silenced.

The mothers gathered again in the plaza, their numbers growing. Their silence spoke louder than any shouted demand.

And this time, the world was watching.

Years later, as Camila stood before her mother’s grave, she finished telling her children Teresa’s story.

“She never found Alejandro,” Camila said, her voice thick with emotion. “But she found justice.

Because of her, and the other mothers, the world could no longer ignore what happened. The generals were put on trial. The truth was exposed.”

Sofia reached out and touched the gravestone. “She was brave.”

“Yes,” Camila whispered. “She was.”

As they stood in silence, the midday sun shone down on Teresa’s name, illuminating the inscription below it:

Teresa Ávila – Madre, luchadora, eterna