Many things had happened between 1976 and 1984 to ensure that our paths would cross in the courtroom.
I wondered what Videla’s attitude would be before the judges. We knew that he would not testify, but we were still nervous. We were still tense. He entered in a gray suit, escorted by a deputy, walking a bit sideways, and greeted us in a very correct but noticeably nervous manner.
The name the Junta had baptized itself with was the “Process of National Reorganization.” Videla had occupied the position of President of the Nation for four years. In 1981, he had handed over power to then-General Viola — for the purpose of the movement that had led coup in 1976 was to perpetuate a civil-military party that would win the elections on that distant day when an election was called. 
From their point of view, after having won “the war against subversion,” it was necessary to “win the peace.” Find a formula for translating success into political repression: “encourage the pursuit of schools of thought to instill certain goals and achieve a desired inheritance.” This current of opinion, Videla declared in 1980, “should support a process such that there will never be an election of heads or tails, won’t be ‘Anti-Process,’ and won’t fail to achieve its goals.”
The foundation of their role was in “the triumph against subversion.” They believed that victory gave them a right, a historical role that they could project into politics.
Of course, this didn’t include investigating the ways by which they might become victorious. Then-General Viola had declared in 1980: “The armed forces will not support the review of the proceedings against terrorism. For our ethical concepts, allowing the prosecution to those who with honor and sacrifice have fought to restore peace to Argentina would constitute a betrayal and an affront … Argentina’s families’ pain can not be used to deform the reality of what happened and to serve as explanation for the inexplicable. “
Page 1.
Given my fascination with international/large-scale acts of law and justice, I figured one project I could occupy myself with would be translating Luis Moreno-Ocampo’s When the Power Lost the Case into English.
Here’s the first page —
October, 1984.
Seated before a small wooden desk, the guards would soon bring Jorge Rafael Videl into this room, and we hoped he would testify before the judges.
The courtroom of the Federal Chamber had a solemn mark to it — there were huge stained glass windows, and up above them, a crucifix. Though the room had all the trappings of a bank, it felt like a church. Beside me, Strassera smoked a cigarette, one without end. At another desk were two defenders. Counting police custody, we were no more than ten in a room that could only accommodate four.
A few days before, I had been appointed to assist Julio César Strassera as deputy prosecutor in the trial of the military juntas. It was the first time I went to work as a prosecutor and he would see personally to Videla. The different images I had of him, almost always in uniform, through the television broadcasts and all the newspapers dating back to the morning of March 24, 1976, when the deep voice of an announcer on national TV said that the Armed Forces had dismissed the president of Argentina, Isabel Martinez de Peron — that morning, while listening to the television, I saw through the window of my little apartment two ladies walking down the sidewalk, overwhelmed by the weight of their shopping bags full of food. It seemed to be a miserable attitude to stock food after a coup.
Looking back, I think I was trying to hide my sense of powerlessness.
El Mismo Amor, La Misma Lluvia.
Part 1.
Argentinian conceptual artist Marta Minujin has constructed this massive tower of books at Plaza San Martin in Buenos Aires to honor UNESCO’s recent nomination of the city as the World Book Capital in 2011. The myriad books were donated by libraries, readers, and over 50 embassies around the world.
Borges attended the Trial of the Juntas. (And apparently testified, though I’m still looking for that.) Here — in Spanish — is what he had to say about it:
Lunes, 22 de julio de 1985.
He asistido, por primera y última vez, a un juicio oral. Un juicio oral a un hombre que había sufrido unos cuatro años de prisión, de azotes, de vejámenes y de cotidiana tortura. Yo esperaba oír quejas, denuestos y la indignación de la carne humana interminablemente sometida a ese milagro atroz que es el dolor físico. Ocurrió algo distinto. Ocurrió algo peor. El réprobo había entrado enteramente en la rutina de su infierno. Hablaba con simplicidad, casi con indiferencia, de la picana eléctrica, de la represión, de la logística, de los turnos, del calabozo, de las esposas y de los grillos. También de la capucha. No había odio en su voz. Bajo el suplicio, había delatado a sus camaradas; éstos lo acompañarían después y le dirían que no se hiciera mala sangre, porque al cabo de unas “sesiones” cualquier hombre declara cualquier cosa. Ante el fiscal y ante nosotros, enumeraba con valentía y con precisión los castigos corporales que fueron su pan nuestro de cada día. Doscientas personas lo oíamos, pero sentí que estaba en la cárcel. Lo más terrible de una cárcel es que quienes entraron en ella no pueden salir nunca. De éste o del otro lado de los barrotes siguen estando presos. El encarcelado y el carcelero acaban por ser uno. Stevenson creía que la crueldad es el pecado capital; ejercerlo o sufrirlo es alcanzar una suerte de horrible insensibilidad o inocencia. Los réprobos se confunden con sus demonios, el mártir con el que ha encendido la pira. La cárcel es, de hecho, infinita.
De las muchas cosas que oí esa tarde y que espero olvidar, referiré la que más me marcó, para librarme de ella. Ocurrió un 24 de diciembre. Llevaron a todos los presos a una sala donde no habían estado nunca. No sin algún asombro vieron una larga mesa tendida. Vieron manteles, platos de porcelana, cubiertos y botellas de vino. Después llegaron los manjares (repito las palabras del huésped). Era la cena de Nochebuena. Habían sido torturados y no ignoraban que los torturarían al día siguiente. Apareció el Señor de ese Infierno y les deseó Feliz Navidad. No era una burla, no era una manifestación de cinismo, no era un remordimiento. Era, como ya dije, una suerte de inocencia del mal.
¿Qué pensar de todo esto? Yo, personalmente, descreo del libre albedrío. Descreo de castigos y de premios. Descreo del infierno y del cielo. Almafuerte escribió:
Somos los anunciados, los previstos
si hay un Dios, si hay un punto omnisapiente;
¡y antes de ser, ya son, en esa mente,
los Judas, los Pilatos y los Cristos!
Sin embargo, no juzgar y no condenar el crimen sería fomentar la impunidad y convertirse, de algún modo, en su cómplice.
Es de curiosa observación que los militares, que abolieron el Código Civil y prefirieron el secuestro, la tortura y la ejecución clandestina al ejercicio público de la ley, quieran acogerse ahora a los beneficios de esa antigualla y busquen buenos defensores. No menos admirable es que haya abogados que, desinteresadamente sin duda, se dediquen a resguardar de todo peligro a sus negadores de ayer.
- @wyntonmarsalis: This video is from our 2008 rehearsal of “Billie”, composed by master accordionist Richard Galliano http://bit.ly/dztSSK
- Argentina – beautiful new travel photo gallery by @NatGeoSociety http://bit.ly/aAvCf5 (via @Marilyn_Res)
- No full Social Security benefits until age 70?: http://bit.ly/9vvgnN
- New MP and former Oxford historian Gregg McClymont has written a blog on Hardie and the Liberals for Keir Hardie Day: http://bit.ly/bLs1GR
- Ed Kashi On Photographing Pakistan http://n.pr/dqeKBq
