Courage of the Plaza de Mayo Mothers
Disappearing acts in Latin America are a brutal daily reality, with women disproportionately bearing the cost. The voice of Dolores Reyes, a teacher, activist, and mother of seven, rises from this truth. Her work—especially the novel Misery, published by Alfaguara—casts a stark light on gendered violence. The central figure is a gifted young woman who sustains herself by consuming soil from sites where missing people once stood, a haunting metaphor for piecing together vanished lives. This narrative refuses to stay quiet about the grim consequences of misogyny and abandonment, turning a personal crisis into a collective indictment of violence against women.
Reyes reflects on how police and state institutions often fail families seeking answers. In her view, law enforcement can be opaque, sometimes indifferent, and rarely interested in mothers who report a daughter missing. Researchers and investigators may hesitate, leaving families to improvise their own routes to truth. The concern extends beyond isolated cases to a larger system that seems to tolerate or overlook violence. She notes that many families eventually turn to elder seers and healers when official channels stall, even though she stresses that readers should approach such avenues with caution, as some exploit the desperate with dark rites. The unsettling reality she describes is not limited to fiction; it mirrors the lived experience of countless communities wrestling with disappearances and the coercive power of fear.
In the places she depicts, communities feel pressed to act when the search is desperate. The setting—an urban landscape near Buenos Aires with neighborhoods that pulse with both care and danger—shows a town where posters of missing women adorn walls and where advertisements for services in the shadows remind readers of the commercial exploitation that often accompanies violence. The protagonist’s empathy for victims drives a compelling mission: to reveal violence and exploitation, and to urge action through a hunger that binds memory to the land itself. The author traces a lineage of personal loss that informs her mission, including a memory of violence within her own family that fuels her commitment to depicting survivor resilience.
Violence against women is framed as an ongoing epidemic within many Latin American communities. Reyes explains that the impact runs through police responses, judicial processes, and public discourse. Too often, cases are met with insufficient evidence, or treated as suicides or other non-femicide explanations. The public conversation frequently undercuts the severity of gender-based violence, a pattern she critiques as part of a broader patriarchal system. She points to specific cases where protection measures failed to prevent tragedy, and she recalls victims who faced insufficient legal protection even when threats were clear. In one instance a woman reported repeated harassment by an ex-partner, only to encounter delays and jurisdictional missteps; the eventual outcome was devastating. In another, a woman who sought safety from a violent partner, who happened to be a police officer, faced a fatal act of violence despite reported threats. These stories illustrate the dangerous gap between words and consequences within systems meant to safeguard citizens.
The imagery used in the work is stark. Misery portrays a world where the dead are disposed of in communal graves, empty lots, and dumpsters—an indictment of how society often strips dignity from female victims after their lives have been taken. The narrative links this dehumanization to the larger forces of misogyny and hatred, arguing that the treatment of female bodies after violence betrays a cold calculus that values them less once they are used. The author makes a hard distinction between surface appearances and the deeper truth that violence is not an isolated act but a social disease that must be challenged at its roots.
Reyes pays tribute to the Plaza de Mayo Mothers, acknowledging their courage in opposing dictatorship and fighting for the right to mourn and locate missing loved ones. These women, who extracted meaning from years of fear and disappearance, demonstrated that ongoing search and public accountability are acts of resistance. Their network of aid and solidarity against sexist violence grew stronger during the pandemic, proving that collective action can sustain memory and front-line justice even when institutions falter. The narrative argues that the danger is not only outside the home but also within it, a reminder that safety begins with addressing domestic and societal violence at its source.
Interwoven with the current struggle in Latin America are echoes from the past, including debates about disappearances during Spain’s Civil War. Reyes suggests that the issue transcends borders: there are many unidentified bodies in mass graves, and the impulse to erase memory can stall healing. The treatment of victims and the ways authorities respond or fail to respond reveal a persistent tension between justice, memory, and reprisal. Through this lens, the author urges a conscientious memory work that honors victims while pushing for stronger protections and accountability.
Ultimately, the work stands as a powerful call to action. It invites readers to confront the hard truths about gendered violence, to question systems that minimize harm, and to support the families who persist in search and remembrance. It is a manifest that the fight against violence requires courage, solidarity, and sustained advocacy for change—an ongoing struggle that remains deeply relevant across Latin America, Spain, and beyond.
— Ferran Nadeu