Barrio 31

BARRIO 31

Argentina, 1977

"Everybody, Get Out!" I was jolted awake in the middle of the night by yelling and banging outside. My mother rushed into my room--or rather, my space--separated from the living room by a tired old sheet hung up to give a fifteen-year-old some privacy. We lived in villas miseria, Barrio 31, one of the shantytown slums in the heart of Buenos Aires, situated between two wealthy neighborhoods of Recoleta and Puerto Madero. Papa had moved us here to escape uprisings in Paraguay, with dreams of a better life, only to find rejection and unemployment, and forced to live in a house of plywood and sheet metal, the electricity and water shut off by the government who disapproved of immigrants in their city.

"Maria," my mother urgently whispered, kissing my face, "Don't be afraid. Be quick to dress. We have to leave." In the flashing light coming through the window from the machinery outside, I saw she wore her best dress, the soft one with the pink flowers. The satin fabric swished as she filled a suitcase with clothes, then hurried back into the living room. Papa and the neighborhood men shouted, "Go away! Leave us alone." The grinding engines from the army trucks and tanks grew louder, closer, along with the riddling of bullets from machine guns.

"Come, Maria, Outside." Mama held out her hand. I stuffed my toy cat, Felix, a family photo, writing journal and pens in my backpack, then we escaped into the night, just as tear gas exploded through the air, choking our eyes and lungs. "Hurry," she said, as I gripped her hand tighter, into the stampeding crowd, fleeing their homes like exterminated rats.

"Where's Papa? We can't leave without him," I pleaded.

"Keep going," she answered. "You must be strong. Don't look back."

But I did. Through the chaos and smoke, I saw the soldiers shoot the men defending our homes--and Papa lay in a pool of blood, face down in the mud. There were a series of loud bangs as the bulldozers leveled our home, burying the bodies in smoke and rubble, and all our homes and possessions were destroyed. Soon, arrangements were made for me to go, alone, to live with my aunt in Italy, where I studied hard in college, earning a degree in journalism. Five years later when I returned to Buenos Aires after landing a job at the local paper, I searched for my mother, but I never saw her again.

"You asked to see me, Sir?" I said, tapping on the editor's door. "Is it about my story?"

Carlos Perez was speaking on the phone as he motioned me to close the door and sit across from him at his desk. He wore a bargain store white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and perspiration showing under his armpits. With his face full of concern, he rubbed his tired eyes, and shook his balding head. "Maria Valdez? Yes, I'm sorry, but I can't print this."

"I don't understand," I said, my smile fading, "You asked me to write a story about Barrio 31, and that's what I've done."

"I told you to write about the positive government improvements to the services and infrastructure of Barrio 31." His tone was irritated, punishing. "I didn't ask you to air the junta's dirty laundry." He then read--

Since the military junta came to power on March 24, 1976, thousands of people have been dragged away in unmarked cars--their privacy violated, belongings looted, families given no explanation of where they were taken, or why they were "disappeared." The Madres de Plaza de Mayo have been relentless in their protests, changing their traditional role of silent homemakers to powerful revolutionists, holding the police and government accountable for these heinous crimes across the country--

"Miss Valdez," he said, slamming the paper on the desk, "This is suicide. If I print this, you, me and every person at this newspaper is dead."

"What about free speech? People are entitled to the truth. I have verified sources for everything I have written--"

" Keep your voice down. The walls have ears," he hissed, "Your passion is commendable, but you're young, inexperienced. There is a time and place for truth, but for now, we must praise those in power and be very careful what we say and do."

"Thirty thousand people," I shouted, trying to hold back my tears, "students, lawyers, doctors, husbands--"

"And journalists," he answered reverently. Do you want to be found, washed up along the river? What about your family?"

"My father was murdered by the secret police in 1977 and my mother disappeared soon after. I am well aware of how the junta improves shantytowns. Over four hundred homes destroyed to make the city look good for the FIFA World Cup in 1978--all for a soccer game!"

He handed back my story. "Burn your notes and pray no one else has seen this. Let the dead find their justice." As I rose, he said, "Leave the door open, and Maria...Be careful."

I walked to the Plaza and looked at the Presidential Palace with contempt. The Madres de Mayo marched, wearing their disrinctive white head coverings, holding placards with pictures of their missing loved ones, demanding to know where they were taken. I admired their courage and resolve and knew, as a journalist, I had failed them.

I noticed I had been followed from the office by a man to my left, casually dressed in a tan shirt, chinos and dark sunglasses. I stepped into the crowd to avoid detection, then glancing back, he was still following. I picked up the pace, then started to run as he was joined by two other men, also dressed in plain clothes. I turned the corner and fled into the Barrio, hoping to take refuge in the dark region of my past, but they grabbed and tackled me. I kicked and clawed with the force of a beast, spitting into the face of the man holding me on the ground.

"Let me go!" I screamed. "Help!"

"You bitch! He punched hard, splitting my lip, crushing my jaw, then together they dragged and dumped me into the trunk of a car, placed a hood over my head, and tied it tight. I was overcome by the sweet smell of chloroform, rendering me helpless as I drifted off, on the way to Hell.

I am weak, sitting alone in the interrogation room of the detention center. I don't know how long I was tortured, or when I last ate or drank anything, here in the dark, hood over my head, not knowing my fate. In this cold, blind silence, the slightest sound--even the rapid beating of my heart, brings fear and terror to every breath I take. My hands are tied behind my back, but using my fingers to write on imaginary paper, I focus on writing my story, my truth. It is the story of a fifteen-year-old girl, a stuffed toy cat Felix, her lost dreams and her loving parents, who once lived together in Barrio 31.