Argentina in the Year of the Scratch.

by Michael McCaughan.

"First we must kill the subversives, then their sympathisers, then the indifferent and finally the timid." General Iberico Saint Jean, governor of Buenos Aires during military rule.

The light was fading on a warm Buenos Aires evening when one hundred brightly-dressed youths marched up the quiet streets of the Floresta neighbourhood, rigged out head to toe in bright jester outfits, carrying drums, paints and leaflets.

The strange troupe came to a halt outside a large empty building, which was surrounded by dozens of riot police. Plainclothes agents strolled nearby, walkie-talkies crackling inside their neat blue suits. The building, ëel Olimpoí served as a torture centre during military rule.

The busy road was sealed off and a sound system was parked in the middle of the road, opposite the entrance to the building. "The Sadness-Killer is here, let the murga begin," said a lanky youth wearing a Metallica t-shirt.

The 'murga' is a popular carnival dance, once a feature of every working-class Buenos Aires neighbourhood, calling the people to sing their stories of resistance and dance their away their poverty, even for a day. All 'murgas' were banned during military rule.

The jesters were accompanied by 200 spectators, many of them members of HIJOS, (Children for Identity and Justice and against Forgetting and Silence) an association of sons and daughters of the disappeared, who carry out the 'escraches.'

The term 'escrache' means to expose something which has been hidden from public view, in this case the homes and detention centres of the military-business complex which ruled Argentina from 1976 to 1983, killing an estimated 30,000 men and women.

In addition to the disappeared some 500 children were either kidnapped or born in captivity, then handed over to adoptive parents. Only fifty nine children have been recovered.

ìWARNING-KILLER IN THE NEIGHBOURHOODî read one leaflet handed out to dozens of curious locals who gathered to watch the event, their children fascinated by the jesters, who took turns showing off their skills, scissor-kicking and cartwheeling along the road.

Faces were painted with sun and moon symbols, expressing sadness or joy, their animated gestures breathing life into the story narrated from the sound system.

The mood was festive but the police watched tensely and filmed the event from a nearby rooftop, a reminder that the state continues to track its dissidents.

For the past 20 years the military reluctantly tolerated the Mothers of the Disappeared with open disdain and occasional violence, watching mothers become grandmothers, waiting for age to take its toll on the regime survivors.

In the past year however hundreds of youths, aged 15 to 30, have pledged to pursue their parents tormentors "until the day they die" guaranteeing the struggle for memory will last halfway into the next century.

In the years since the dictatorship the nationís armed forces secured laws of pardon and forgetting from weak civilian rulers, with only child theft and ill-gotten cash still liable for prosecution. In the absence of legal tools to punish the repressors, HIJOS impose public censure and social ostracism.

The murga moved on noisily to its next destination, the home of former junta leader and navy admiral Emilio Massera, living in a posh avenue in the centre of Buenos Aires.

The entire apartment block was in darkness, but silhouettes could be seen behind curtains, watching the loud, colourful procession below.

The 'Escraches' have had a significant impact on the torturers, who have until now enjoyed relative peace, suffering only an occasional thump from an outraged citizen when confronted in public. Jorge 'tigre' Acosta, one of the regime's most brutal and unrepentant torturers, moved home two days after a visit from 'HIJOS' while a former amnesia-struck police chief suddenly recalled the location of secret army archives after his home was targeted.

"Everyone suffered the dictatorship in one form or another," said Eduardo, a member of HIJOS Rosario, in Argentina's second city, one of 26 HIJOS groups gathered into a national network. "We are not interested in being victims, we are taking up where our parents left off, fighting for a better society, not just for us, but for all children."

The escrache is an elaborate ritual with a set of work tools that include road signs, jail bars, paint, leaflets and posters. The road signs warn neighbours and passers-by of the danger ahead. The jail bars are symbolically placed in front of the torturer's home, fulfilling HIJOS pledge to "make of every torturer's home a prison cell."

Back at the Olimpo detention centre, the fiesta climax came when a group of youths approached the entrance to the torture centre, carrying paints and brushes, accompanied by a dozen mothers of the disappeared, easily identified by their white headscarves.

The madres linked arms and formed a ring of steel to protect the youths as the police watched on, their superiors huddled in consultation. With the press, the crowd and the madres all there, there was nothing to be done.

"We want our stolen brothers and sisters back," read one sign, painted in large letters on the road. The police generally wipe the paint off as soon as the escrache is over, but a slogan painted over a busy road is harder to eliminate, and it was there three days later.

"Trial and Punishment for the Repressors" read an orange and green sign, painted in front of the building. "Neither forgetting nor pardon," said another.

What did the neighbours think of all this? "It's a great idea," said two poorly-dressed women, their children watching the jesters in awe. "I can't imagine what it would be like to have a parent tortured and killed," she added.

"I think it's a bloody disgrace," said another man, who stood watching with his wife and two children. "The army had to wipe out the subversives, " he added, beginning a 20 minute speech about the virtues of military rule, before lowering his voice to a whisper.

"I'm a police officer," he said. "And those guys over there are all army intelligence, they tape everything." This police officer, who identified himself as Juan, said he had spoken to national TV before, but that shots had been fired at his home the following day.

"I can understand why these kids want to scream and shout, they lost their parents, but the army had to do something or we would be living in Cuba by now," he concluded.

The army launched the 'National Reorganisation Process' in March 1976, pledging to annihilate subversion and make the country a repository of "western, christian values."

The two main guerrilla groups, 'Montoneros' and 'ERP', were largely dismembered before the coup occurred. The coup served to legitimise the disappearance of all social activists whose work imperilled an economic project that required the dismantling of unions, parliament, the independent press and other opposition. President Carlos Menem (1989-98) has institutionalised the same economic project, ruling by decree to circumvent parliament and keeping the state security apparatus intact.

The result of military rule has been a generation lost, an external debt which increased fivefold and a legacy of fear deep within most people, who still consider legal protest a fast track to a shallow grave.

Argentina's three main political parties bowed to public pressure last March and derogated the laws of pardon and forgetting but the measure has no retroactive effect. Last month however judge Marquevich surprised the country by ordering the arrest of former junta leader Jorge Videla, who now faces a long prison sentence for child theft. Videla was stripped of his military rank in 1985 and was not tried previously for the alleged crimes, paving the way for the recent arrest.

ends