“I am Leila Guerriero, I am a journalist, I live in Buenos Aires,” she states on the Saturday program Let’s Live for Two Days. de la Ser is an Argentinian writer who turns every topic into a literary challenge, transforming reporting into a narrative that lingers long after the interview ends.
He discusses the repression carried out by the Military Junta, a dark chapter in the nation’s history that saw thousands of Argentines murdered or humiliated since 1976. His book The Call, comprising 430 pages, does not shy from the harsh truth about those years or the army they led. Jorge Rafael Videla stands as a symbol of the regime’s brutality, a figure who sought to humiliate opponents through fear and control.
The persecution reached far and wide, impacting even those who were only children at the time, whether activists or not. Montoneros, the opposition resisting the generals, faced a brutal crackdown. ESMA (the Naval Mechanics School) operated as a tool of oppression where many were imprisoned, tortured, and some were subjected to sexual violence under the military’s watch. The narrative centers on Silvia Labayru Montonera, a young woman whose life was entangled with those on the wrong side of power and who became a symbol of the era’s oppression.
The book unfolds through questions and answers, and in this interview the author, then 57, reflects on how the incident from his childhood still churns in his mind. Known by titles such as Suicides in the South of the World, Strange Fruits, or American Airplane, the work invites readers to reexamine the past through a careful, humane lens.
Q. How challenging was this book to create? How did it begin? What was the opening question?
A. The first meeting with Silvia happened in a casual setting at her home in Buenos Aires. An initial thought was to write an article for El País, but the story grew into a book once Silvia agreed. During that first encounter, a masked figure appeared on the balcony outside, a reminder of the 2020 pandemic. The journalist aimed to capture Silvia’s life from the very start, not just the years of militancy or disappearance. The details were precise, even repetitive at times, signaling a life lived with complexity and resilience.
Q. It was a challenge, so…
A. Indeed. The primary task was trust. It had been decades since Silvia spoke with a journalist, and fear of repetition or betrayal lingered. The aim was to challenge with difficult questions while maintaining a respectful distance, ensuring the subject would not close down a conversation. The journalist questioned whether internal intelligence was used during Montonero years and whether it would imperil family or associates. The goal was not to write a simple portrait of militancy but to present Silvia with full context, allowing her truth to emerge without a curated narrative.
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Q. What information did you have about him and what happened?
A. The writer consulted survivor testimonies and studied habilitating accounts of Alfredo Astiz, among the most infamous torturers at ESMA. A lawsuit regarding the rapes was filed, and Silvia gave permission to conduct these conversations. The author interviewed many people; each person carried a different memory and perspective that might not perfectly align with Silvia’s account. The best approach was to assemble a chorus of voices, presenting multiple viewpoints to counter bias while exposing contradictions that illuminate the human condition.
“Rape as a crime other than torture has only been recognized since 2010. Yet complaints remain rare, revealing the enduring reach of terror and its spread over time.”
Q. Why was this subject chosen?
A. A photographer friend suggested the piece after reading a report in Page 12 about a rape case. The material suggested a distinctly meaningful moment in history: a rare voice willing to name and challenge systemic abuses, including the role of a military figure who manipulated power to infiltrate movements and families. The author learned that the debacle also involved the forced companionship of two figures in the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo narrative. The discovery that the perpetrators often hid behind a web of influence, while intimate details about Silvia’s life added texture, made the story uniquely compelling. The author was drawn to the way the subject’s psychology, studied abroad, intersected with a controversial personal history, creating a narrative rich with moral and factual complexity. The birth of the book was a convergence of evidence, memory, and a legitimate moral obligation to tell the truth with care.
Q. Did the responsibility feel heavy?
A. The weight was the obligation to tell the story accurately, not to bury contradictions under a single lens. The journalist sought a plural, unflinching account that acknowledged differing recollections without letting prejudice distort the larger picture. Silvia’s trust was essential, and the author refused to weaponize her narrative to flatter or betray her.
Question: In the book, is there space for moments of doubt or danger to continue?
A. No moment of fear overshadowed the process. As doors opened, more insight followed. Support from Silvia and her circle—ex-husband Alberto Lennie and others—proved crucial, as did a willingness to share even uncomfortable truths. The approach created a distributed, cinematic memory where many voices contribute to the whole, ensuring the portrayal remains balanced and rigorous.
We wear both journalist and person roles all the time. The interviewer asks what is necessary to tell a story, accepting that painful or shocking disclosures will be met with calm, not judgment. This willingness to listen defines the integrity of the work, even when the content unsettles readers or challenges assumptions.
Q. Of all you heard, what surprised or hurt you the most?
A. The distinction between journalist and person blurs in practice. The process involves asking needed questions, remaining open to the truth, and listening through discomfort. Silvia’s revelations, and the way the dialogue unfolded, underscored that the human story behind historical events matters as much as the facts themselves.
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Q. How did this book leave you?
A. The author finished exhausted, the pace of reporting, transcribing, and the long arc of two and a half years leaving a quiet emptiness. Yet soon a new project began in Palamós, applying the same discipline to a volume about Truman Capote. The energy returned as the next chapter unfolded.
Q. Silvia spoke about the sources she consulted, including Machado and Borges. The lines underlined by Borges are quoted: “I know that defeat has a dignity that loud victory does not deserve.” The lines offer a lens that helps the narrative breathe with meaning, a thread that ties back to the notebook entries and the broader themes of memory and resilience.
A. Those lines carry weight because they illuminate how memory is kept alive, brightened by careful reflection. They find a place in the text as a reminder that even in difficult times, dignity can be found in the act of bearing witness.