Since arriving in Argentina in August, I have received twenty-five International SOS Security Advisories warning me of “anti-government rallies,” “potentially disruptive demonstrations” by unionized teachers and, most recently, “nationwide police strikes over wage disputes.” In fact, as I write in one of the few cafes in the city with electricity during a power outage, I can hear a defiant voice being blasted out of a megaphone atop a slow-moving van.
Classic Argentina: where pot-banging, fire-starting, and plaza-occupying are requisite activities of every citizen, upper and lower class, old and young alike.
Argentines have an appetite for—nay, an obsession with— manifestations in the public space. It makes sense. For one, Argentina has a strong tradition of “the public.” Public healthcare. Public education. Public welfare foundations. More public parks and museums than I could visit in four months. Secondly, for a generation that used to wake up to find their mothers, fathers, neighbors and friends snatched from their homes during the military dictatorship of the 1970s, self-expression has become the cornerstone of protecting all other freedoms.
Earlier in the semester, I conveyed to a professor my surprise at how unabashed Argentines were to air their political qualms. My professor retorted that, perhaps, for someone who had grown up in a country where liberty was unquestionable, it was difficult to understand the pride in being a little militant.
She was right. When the U.S. government “shut down,” I rolled my eyes. I never thought to encourage my friends back home to pioneer picket lines in every state capital.In Argentina, however, the chaos of provincial urban centers flashed nonstop across television sets for ten days; local security forces had joined forces with looters, pursuing a course of inaction vis-à-vis the latter’s acts of pilfering to gain leverage in a standoff over salaries.
Advancing a public cause is the fire that sustains the Argentine spirit. This past Thursday, I witnessed the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo Association walk a circle they have collectively walked for 36 years. The state-sponsored political violence that claimed the lives of over 30,000 between 1976 and 1983 had left these mothers ignorant of the fates of their children, who had been kidnapped due to their politically liberal activism. Were they imprisoned or had they been jettisoned into the sea? These were the unfortunately pertinent questions that the mothers asked at the founding of their association in 1977…
… And which they continue to ask. Holding a banner that read, “Hasta la Victoria, Siempre Queridos Hijos” (translation: Until Victory, Always Dear Children) and donned in their distinctive white headscarves, ten ladies of advanced age took steps of solidarity around the plaza in front of the country’s executive palace. Their lyrical chants demanded the release of official records detailing what became of their “disappeared” sons and daughters. Though their steps were feeble, their resolution was strong. Later, I listened to them speak not of the pain of losing a child or of their unknowing, but of the need to never become apathetic of injustice.
Thus, Argentina’s most sacred place is not its National Cathedral, the Casa Rosada, or the Obelisk: it’s the public domain, the space that belongs to all. That’s why graffiti and street art are indelible features of the country’s landscape. The rise of graffiti in the ’80s symbolically marked the return of democracy and its corollary, the freedom of expression, to the country. The grey gloom of the 2001 financial crisis created a need for the color of the street art movement. Sprayed slogans and vibrant stenciled images were ways for communities to reclaim the public space from a perceived common enemy— corrupt politicians.
Furthermore, in the University of Buenos Aires (UBA), Argentina’s most prestigious university whose alumni network boasts of Pope Francis and whose mascot is a beaver styled after Che Guevara, the flyers of student groups leave no weathered wall space untouched. These student organizations aren’t extracurricular-based, Glee Club types. Rather, the poster boards and banners that make up the paper menagerie of the hallways advertise politically leftist philosophies about student rights and representation.
During the student government elections, my four-hour class was punctuated by the ten-minute “pitches” of student-led political parties vying to represent the body politic of the School of Social Science. To my surprise, professors respected what was essentially the process of simulating a democracy within the microcosm of an educational institution.
Many of the parties’ platforms promised greater student participation in changes to the university’s policies. Given that goal, it follows that when the administration elected a rector of the university this past semester without heeding student opinion, students staged a strike and refused to attend class. UBA was thereby known as being “tomada,” or taken, and classes were suspended. Thus, in Argentina, skipping class isn’t an act of truancy, but one of purposeful resolve to demonstrate an investment in one’s education.
I saw that same drive in a school in the suburbs, as well. Many of the students of the recently inaugurated National University of Arturo Jauretche had formerly woken up daily at 4 or 5 am in order to travel into Buenos Aires for work and school. Their appreciation for a chance at a more convenient academic life was reflected in the enthusiasm of the President of the Student Center, Juan Martín Casco.
Juan shared with a group of us exchange students how his student political party, the university’s first, ran the on-campus snack shop and fotocopiadora. The proceeds from these commercial activities allowed the organization to distribute school supplies, offer scholarships, and organize cultural activities. Juan also mentioned that he conducted door-to-door campaigning in the surrounding neighborhood to alert residents to the presence of a free and inclusive public university nearby.