The Empty Chair — Presentation at the Human Rights Book Fair

On March 22, 2026, I presented The Empty Chair at Espacio Memoria (ex ESMA), as part of the Human Rights Book Fair.
Here I share some words from that encounter.

It is very moving for me to be here with you and to present this book, so deeply intertwined with my own story, my family’s story, and surely with the story of many of you as well. This is a book born out of the experience of the trial for Hugo, my brother-in-law’s disappearance. It weaves together autobiographical and fictional elements, and it became the way I found to give voice to something I needed both to express and to document.

It is not surprising that this occasion has brought forth many thoughts, feelings, and memories I would like to share. Where should I begin? What should I prioritize?

Writing a book means traveling many paths that sometimes lead nowhere, and for that very reason, there is no guarantee of reaching a destination. This book, moreover, not only traveled across two countries and two languages, but also brought together elements from here and from there, making me wonder how it might be received in both places.

And here we are—my book, you, and I—because several elements came together in what might seem like a fortuitous way: the book was printed just in time, it coincided with a trip that had already been planned, and I was included in this event at the last moment, something for which I am deeply grateful to Sebastián Rosenfeld and Julián Athos.

It is worth noting that although things often appear fortuitous at first glance, a closer look reveals that they are not entirely so.

We will return to this later. But first, let us take a journey. Because how could we return if we have not first left?

I would like to begin by sharing an anecdote that feels especially relevant to this occasion, as it involves Fernando Ulloa—a mentor, a friend, and a remarkable figure in the defense of human rights in Argentina.

Toward the end of the 1970s, Fernando led a clinical reflection group in which I participated. We met on Friday mornings, and the sessions lasted for many hours. It was something I was deeply passionate about.

One of those Fridays fell during the same week in May 1979 when Hugo was abducted, just days before his twentieth birthday.

The meeting unfolded as usual—or so I thought—but well into the session, Fernando, very serious, locked eyes with me and, without much filter, said:

—Forgive my language, but… what the fuck is going on with you? Why do you look so angry?

Oh. He noticed. And I had thought I was managing to keep it together.

Why try to cover it up? I have no clear answer. Perhaps because, in the climate of that time, it was believed that not drawing attention increased the chances that our loved one might reappear. Perhaps it was fear, or not wanting to take over the group with something so tragic. I don’t know. None of these reasons seem entirely logical.

The point is that there was no way out of that confrontation, and holding back tears, I replied:

—Nothing is happening to me… but my brother-in-law has disappeared.

Silence. Everyone was in shock.

Fernando’s response broke the heavy silence and hit me hard:

—But listen—if it’s not happening to you, then who is it happening to?

The question—or the statement—bewildered me then, and it continued to do so for a long time. I must admit I am still searching for answers.

I don’t remember how the meeting continued, because by then I was crying uncontrollably. But that exchange became crystallized in my mind, and it continues to resonate to this day.

I kept thinking: what could what I was feeling possibly matter, compared to what might be happening to Hugo?

Fernando was pointing to the importance of recognizing what happens to each of us as subjects—but I was unable to think.

Thinking requires calm.

Now, playing with verb tenses, I ask myself again: if it is not happening to me, then why this book?

And I ask you: if it is not happening to you, then why are you here?

What happened, happened. And what is happening continues to unfold its effects.

And there are many effects. Fortunately, there are events like this one, books that are written, and stories that are told in an attempt to grasp those effects—to contain what causes suffering and to strengthen the healing effects of justice, democracy, and resilience.

Going back to what I was saying before—that what often seems fortuitous is not mere chance, but also has to do with causality—the fact that I was included in this event at the last moment is not unrelated to what happens to me, and to what happens to all of us.

Because a Mother—a member of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, the movement of women who searched for their disappeared children during the dictatorship—the mother of my friend Mimi Rosenfeld—fought for her son and was able to bring her grandson back. And that grandson, now part of the organization HIJOS, connected with another “Hijo,” and they opened the door for me.

And here I am.

With Beatriz, who followed closely the search for her brother, abducted together with Hugo, and who, along with her family, fought so that justice would be done.

Isn’t it true that what we think has already happened never fully passes, because we continue to be shaped by its effects?

Now I would like to share how this book came about and the context in which it emerged.

During the trial that took place so many years after Hugo’s disappearance, I took notes as best I could, shaken by the intensity of what I was experiencing—not only to remember, but also to be able to tell my husband what was happening in the courtroom. As a witness, he was not allowed to attend until it was his turn to testify, which came toward the end.

I also wrote daily to my daughters and friends about what was unfolding.

Witnessing the trial was a deeply moving experience, filled with chilling discoveries that I will not go into now, so as not to reveal too much.

Before returning to the United States, we improvised a gathering at my friend Silvia Resnizky’s home to share the experience. I was struck by the almost urgent interest the trial awakened, far beyond our closest circles, and by the emotional support we received.

That gathering offered a kind of closure before our departure, even though there was still no verdict. It helped me understand that no one heals from something like this alone.

We accompanied one another. We shared losses. We were held by solidarity.

I also came to understand that, being far away, we had not been able to take part in what was unfolding in the country: the struggles, the demonstrations, the trials. These collective experiences allow pain to be transformed, even when what was lost cannot be repaired.

We are all survivors of the cynicism contained in the phrase “por algo será,” and we are all, in one way or another, called to bear witness.

Perhaps that is what Fernando was pointing to.

But the book was originally written in English. It was conceived in the United States the day after Trump’s inauguration, when I returned from the Women’s March.

At that time, there was a growing sense in some sectors that a strong, authoritarian figure might resolve division. And what did not fully unfold then returned later with greater force—more explicit, more violent, more openly anti-democratic.

In that context, I found myself placing hope in younger generations. I wanted to speak to them. To share what state terrorism looks like, what it does, and what it leaves behind.

And also to convey the value of democracy and the importance of civic participation—especially in a country where voting is optional.

That is why I wrote the book in English, although it was difficult.

If writing it in English was difficult, translating it was even more so. The words in Spanish carry a different weight. They hurt in another way.

And yet, reading it in my own language allowed me to see something else: that beyond the narrative, an invisible and complex map had been forming within me.

Between the lines, complex themes emerged: transgenerational trauma, the echo of secrets, the difficulty of telling a child that a loved one was killed by their own government, the trap embedded in the word “disappeared,” and the ways in which the political enters the most intimate spaces.

In the end, if you read the book, you may find your own paths for thinking within it. It may be an ambitious bet—but that is my bet.

It is easy to believe that having a reasonably happy life means the trauma has been erased.

But trauma does not disappear.

Time works on it. Processing it requires change—and expression.

Because, as I often say, we must make our pain count.

It is from that place that this book emerges: as a process of working through, and as an exercise in my responsibility to bear witness.