They would not go away, those pushy women circling the Plaza de Mayo silently, as if under water, photographs of their sons, daughters and husbands swinging on chains from their necks like good-luck charms. Sometimes the women would bear the photographs on placards; sometimes they would hold a snapshot delicately out in front of them between the index finger and the thumb, presenting unassailable proof to anyone who cared to look that the subject of the picture did, at one time, exist. Every Thursday the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo performed their half-hour ritual across the street from the presidential Pink...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
