Josimar Melo visits Argentina in 1985 – 01/25/2023 – Josimar Melo

And when we travel somewhere and realize much later that it was the right time, that it would go down in history?

I felt it watching, finally, the film “Argentina 1985”, by Santiago Miter. I went there at that time and a lot of feelings came up in my mind following the interpretation of Ricardo Darín (whom I met years later, but under different circumstances).

Suspended breath, heart beating a little faster, this is how I saw the saga of prosecutor Julio Strassera, who (among the touching chords of the opening of “Tannhäuser”, by Richard Wagner) tries to put in jail the scoundrel who led the last Argentine military dictatorship (1976 -1983). As I had already been moved, last November, when I learned of the death of Hebe de Bonafini, leader of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, who, wearing white scarves on their heads, protested for missing family members.

I met her in Argentina, 1985 (or 1984), when she was a member of the Trotskyist Fourth International (which here in Brazil, clandestinely, was better known for our student tendency Liberdade e Lula, or Libelu).

At the time, I had already been to Argentina during the dictatorship: my strongest memory was of arriving in the country, with the ostensive repressive apparatus that awaited any traveler at Ezeiza airport and along the road to the capital.

But he had more prosaic memories as well. Staying at the home of local members of our organization, I kept some mental flashes:

1 – to combat the cold, one or two burners on the stove were turned on while we talked in the kitchen;

2 – for thirst, a lot of Argentine wine, generally of poor quality, but well disguised by the sparkling water from a siphon that diluted it (and, as a result, people drank more; Argentina was world champion in per capita consumption of wine, with an impressive 90 liters per year);

3 – to eat, even in a simple house, lunch was a portentous steak of chorizo ​​(roasted on the top grill of the oven), perhaps accompanied by watercress or potatoes, and dinner, the same bifão, perhaps accompanied by potatoes or watercress;

4 – on the street, coffee with milk and medialuna (croissant) in some charming European-style cafe;

5 – and for clandestine meetings, which had to be in public places (since in general we didn’t know the house, or even the real name, of the companions), there was no lack of crowded bookstores.

In my last passage on political service in Buenos Aires (many would come later as a journalist), in addition to meetings to discuss our interventions in the country and on the continent, I wrote a long report on the post-dictatorship situation – exactly the period described in the film.

For that, I participated in the daily parade in which the Mothers of Praça de Mayo, in front of the government palace, demanded the return (or explanation of the whereabouts) of their loved ones.

On the front line, I identified Hebe de Bonafini. I talked to her as we marched. A small woman, with the face of a fragile aunt, until she began to speak. Her assertive Buenos Aires accent loomed large as she voiced her resolve not to grant a minute of tranquility or pardon to the murderers.

I don’t literally remember his words —which I transcribed in French in the article in the newspaper Informations Ouvrières (signed by a certain Oracio Bomfim…), whose copy was lost in time.

But I can imagine that today, if I had interviewed her about that Argentina —and about present-day Brazil—, given the brazenness with which the Ustras, Bolsonaros and so many militiamen celebrate the tortures they committed, she would have echoed what we are saying today: #SEMANISTIA.

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