Collective - Memory - and - The - Language - of - Hu SUTTON PDF

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LAPXXX10.1177/0094582X15570892Latin American PerspectivesSutton / Collective Memory and Human Rights Language
Collective Memory and the Language of Human Rights

Attitudes toward Torture in Contemporary Argentina
by
Barbara Sutton
The democratization that followed the last military dictatorship in Argentina (1976–
1983) has been influenced by human rights organizations’ relentless work to bring about
truth and justice regarding the consequences of state terrorism and to keep the memory of
that period alive. These efforts frame the discursive context in which human rights viola-
tions, including torture, are interpreted in contemporary Argentina. Argentine inter-
viewees from across the political spectrum condemn torture, but the language and frames
they use and the narratives surrounding political events vary. These accounts expose the
conflicted terrain of memory making and the ambivalences and contradictions that perme-
ate the construction of a torture-rejecting culture.
La democratización que vino después de la última dictadura militar en la Argentina (1976–

1983) ha sido influenciada por el trabajo incesante de las organizaciones de derechos humanos
para lograr que se establezca la verdad y se haga justicia sobre las consecuencias del terrorismo
de estado y para mantener la memoria sobre ese periodo viva. Estos esfuerzos enmarcan el
contexto discursivo a través del cual las violaciones de los derechos humanos, entre ellas la
tortura, son interpretadas en la Argentina contemporánea. Las personas entrevistadas en
Argentina, quienes atraviesan el espectro político, condenan la tortura. Sin embargo, el len-
guaje y los esquemas que usan y las narrativas sobre los acontecimientos políticos varían. Estos
relatos exponen el terreno conflictivo de la construcción de la memoria y las ambivalencias y
contradicciones que permean la construcción de una cultura de rechazo hacia la tortura.
Keywords: Argentina, Human rights, Memory, Torture, State terrorism
How do individuals remember state-sponsored human rights violations?

How do interpretations of these events fluctuate with political circumstances,
including transitional justice initiatives? What is the relation between collective
memory and individual attitudes about illegitimate state violence such as tor-
ture? The process of democratization following the last military dictatorship in
Argentina (1976–1983) constitutes a rich case for examining these questions
and specifically the elements of change and continuity in citizen perspectives.
Drawing on qualitative interviews, I explore citizen perspectives on torture
Barbara Sutton is an associate professor of women’s, gender, and sexuality studies at the University
at Albany, State University of New York, and is also affiliated with the Departments of Sociology
and of Latin American, Caribbean, and U.S. Latino Studies. She is the author of Bodies in Crisis:
Culture, Violence, and Women’s Resistance in Neoliberal Argentina (Rutgers University Press, 2010).
She thanks Marjorie Bray, Ron Friedman, Constanza Tabbush, and Roberta Villalón for construc-
tive feedback on this article, as well as Kari Norgaard for collaborative work on the cross-national
research project from which this article emerged.
LATIN AMERICAN PERSPECTIVES, Issue 202, Vol. 42 No. 3, May 2015, 73–91
DOI: 10.1177/0094582X15570892
© 2015 Latin American Perspectives
Downloaded from lap.sagepub.com at SUNY ALBANY LIBRARY on October 10, 2016

73
74 LATIN AMERICAN PERSPECTIVES
and their relation to the extensive use of the language of human rights in
Argentina. This discourse is a central dimension of collective memory of state
terrorism in the country, and its dissemination and sedimentation among ordi-
nary people are one measure of human rights organizations’ success.
The transition to democracy in Argentina has been influenced by human
rights organizations’ relentless efforts to bring about truth and justice and to
keep the memory of human rights abuses alive. A key goal of these efforts has
been to ensure that state-sponsored atrocities such as kidnapping, torture,
assassination, and the disappearance of people are never again committed
(CONADEP, 1984; Duhalde, 1999).1 In the name of national security in a cold
war geopolitical context, the military regime aimed particularly at political dis-
sidents, including members of armed political organizations as well as indi-
viduals with leftist leanings and social justice concerns more broadly. Among
those targeted as “subversive” were activists, workers, students, teachers, art-
ists, journalists, labor organizers, religious leaders, and relatives of people
already disappeared. Additionally, the state armed forces illegally appropri-
ated an estimated 500 children born to disappeared women or kidnapped with
their parents and gave them to other families to be raised under different iden-
tities (Arditti, 1999). (More than 100 of these children, now adults, have been
identified and reunited with their biological families [Abuelas de Plaza de
Mayo, 2012].) These events triggered the formation of various human rights
organizations (notably, Madres de Plaza de Mayo and Abuelas de Plaza de
Mayo) demanding the return of their loved ones (Fisher, 1993). This painful
legacy continues to be the subject of contentious political debate. Yet the ways
in which people understand past events are not frozen in time but part of a
dynamic process of memory building.
Human rights organizations have been central social actors shaping both
policy and discourse on human rights in Argentina. While three decades have
passed since the end of the dictatorship, the legacy of this period has continu-
ously affected current events. In fact, various attempts to deal with the horrors
of state terrorism have been entwined with the politics of different elected gov-
ernments since the fall of the regime. Under the presidency of Raúl R. Alfonsín
(1983–1989) a national commission on the disappeared (the Comisión sobre la
Desaparición de Personas—CONADEP) documented the military’s actions in
the report Nunca Más (Never Again), and a civilian tribunal judged and con-
victed some members of the military juntas. However, during the same presi-
dency and in response to military pressures, the laws of Obediencia Debida
(Due Obedience) and Punto Final (Full Stop) were enacted, limiting further
prosecutions and ensuring impunity for years. The following president, Carlos
S. Menem (1989–1995, 1995–1999) pardoned convicted military officers and
members of armed political groups, advocating national reconciliation. In the
context of the impunity laws, truth trials helped to establish the record of the
military regime’s human rights violations but could not impose penal sanc-
tions. After the economic collapse of 2001 and the political turmoil that led to
the resignation of President Fernando de la Rúa (1999–2001), a period of height-
ened activism ensued. Among the groups agitating for social, economic, and
political change were human rights organizations. The administration of
Néstor Kirchner (2003–2007) responded to some of these demands with

Sutton / COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND HUMAN RIGHTS LANGUAGE 75
increased efforts to redress the human rights violations of the past. Figuring
prominently among new state measures were the annulment of the impunity
laws and the opening of trials against people accused of participation in crimes
against humanity. This political and judicial commitment continued under the
presidency of Cristina Fernández de Kirchner (2007–2011, 2011–present),
including ongoing trials and convictions of hundreds of military and security
force members as well as involved civilians (CELS, 2013).
Overall, human rights advocacy and protest have shaped public discourse
and influenced democratic governments’ transitional justice policies. In addi-
tion to efforts to bring perpetrators to justice, the Argentine state has adopted
various measures with a human rights orientation, such as ratifying various
international human rights treaties (including the Convention against Torture
and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment), fostering
human rights education through schools and the media, holding special com-
memoration days, supporting the creation of sites of memory, and hosting cul-
tural events in line with the theme of “Memory, Truth, and Justice.” These
initiatives have gained momentum in the past decade and contributed to the
discursive context in which human rights violations, including torture, are
interpreted.
Collective Memory Making: Contested and Shifting

Terrain
The ways in which individuals, families, groups, and nations remember the
past are influenced by present political, cultural, and social contexts, and mem-
ory of the past in turn affects current values and debates (Jelin, 2003; Zerubavel,
1996). This embeddedness of memory in social milieus has led scholars to use
terms such as “collective memory” or “social memory” (Olick, Vinitzky-
Seroussi, and Levy, 2011; Zerubavel, 1996). Federico G. Lorenz (2004: 17) points
out that “social memory is essentially dynamic. It grows and changes, con-
stantly recovering or burying facts and meanings.” Furthermore, memory is
plural, and multiple, shifting, and contested memories are affected by power
relations (Jelin, 2011).
In the politics of collective memory making regarding state terrorism in
Argentina, narratives by distinct social actors and at different points in time
have emphasized, problematized, or silenced particular versions of the past
and the participation and responsibilities of different groups and individuals.
While perhaps the most obvious divide is between people at opposite ends of
the political spectrum (e.g., supporters of the military and members of human
rights groups or leftist political organizations), the field of collective memory
making is neither homogeneous (even within “one side” of the divide) nor
static. Collective memory is a process, always emerging, even as “emblematic
memory” is instituted (Steve Stern, 2004, cited in Crenzel, 2011: 1071) and as
categories of victims of atrocity are set in stone through monuments (Vecchioli,
2001). Political developments in the country, such as impunity laws, the open-
ing of judicial proceedings, and new generations of human rights activists,
have shaped what is remembered and how.

With respect to the human rights movement, the features of the past that
have been highlighted or silenced have undergone shifts over time and in rela-
tion to the intervention of different social actors and political events. For
instance, scholars note that some of the early human rights achievements dur-
ing the democratic transition in Argentina (e.g., a measure of governmental
response through the Nunca Más report or the trial of the juntas) were partly
grounded in the use of humanitarian appeals and language but at the cost of
depoliticizing or silencing the activist histories and identities of many of the
disappeared and survivors (Crenzel, 2011; Cueto Rúa, 2010; Feld, 2002). This
framing was later modified by sectors of the human rights movement—par-
ticularly, though not exclusively, organizations of children of victims of state
terrorism such as Hijos por la Identidad y la Justicia contra el Olvido y el
Silencio (H.I.J.O.S.)—that have reclaimed the activist, including revolutionary,
histories and ideals of many of the disappeared (Cueto Rúa, 2010). However,
silence and oblivion may still permeate aspects of memory making even among
members or supporters of such organizations, as is evidenced, for example, by
fragmentary or taboo topics in family narratives, which in turn are significant
to the construction of social memories (Cepeda, 2013). Furthermore, what can
be transmitted about a traumatic political past is contingent on multiple factors
including historical timing and whether societies are willing and able to listen
to testimony of such trauma (Caruth, 1995; Felman and Laub, 1992; Jelin, 2003).
The trauma and open wounds associated with state terrorism in Argentina
point to the connection between memory and human rights. In the words of
Andreas Huyssen (2011: 608),
contemporary memory studies should be linked more robustly with human

rights and justice discursively and practically to prevent memory, especially
traumatic memory, from becoming a vacuous exercise feeding parasitically
and narrowly on itself. But . . . unless it is nurtured by memory and history,
human rights discourse is in danger of losing historical grounding and risks
legalistic abstraction and political abuse. After all, the abstract universalism of
human rights is both a problem and a promise.
In the current Argentine context, the most prevalent collective-memory dis-

course is integrally related to the language of human rights and to the critique
of state terrorism advanced by human rights organizations—much of which
has been taken up by the state (e.g., Alonso, 2009; Vecchioli, 2001). However,
both “memory” and “human rights” have also been adopted by other political
actors with disparate goals. For example, Salvi (2010) illuminates this type of
dynamic regarding the discourse of memoria completa (complete memory)
deployed by supporters of the military disputing the terrain of memory mak-
ing. This raises questions about the normative content of what is remembered
and to what end.
In this article, I explore the interplay between collective memory and the
language of human rights in relation to attitudes toward illegitimate state vio-
lence, particularly torture, a classic type of human rights violation. Drawing on
20 in-depth interviews with adult men and women from across the political
spectrum, I argue that the development of what I call a “torture-rejecting cul-
ture” in Argentina is intimately tied to the memory work spearheaded by the

human rights movement and to the transitional justice measures adopted by

the state, which in turn permeate individual attitudes. No matter what their
political orientation (from progressive to conservative), interviewees con-
demned torture—some of them having shifted from a more justificatory stance
in the past to one of more decisive rejection in the present. Yet the frames they
employed and the narratives they offered varied. These accounts expose the
conflicted terrain of memory making: the rhetorical work of making sense of
individual biography in relation to a disturbing political past, efforts to recon-
cile personal ethics and concrete responses to human rights abuses, and the
persistence of core ideological discourses, some of which do not always
smoothly fit with current expressions of human rights support and condemna-
tion of torture. In other words, the construction of a torture-rejecting culture is
not devoid of ambivalence and contradictions.
A Note on Methods
The data for this article emerge from a broader cross-national study con-
ducted (with Kari M. Norgaard) during 2007–2010 that examined how indi-
viduals deal with information about state-sponsored human rights abuses. We
aimed to compare attitudes in Argentina in relation to the last military dictator-
ship with attitudes in the United States regarding the “war on terror” since
September 11, 2001. The study consisted of 40 in-depth interviews with men
and women with different cultural backgrounds, organizational involvement,
and political sensibilities (20 in each country). We recruited interviewees who
were members of diverse civic, religious, political, nonprofit, and community
organizations and delved into the way they perceived their own governments’
actions with respect to the mentioned periods and events. We were particularly
interested in the way that different people distanced themselves, rationalized,
minimized, normalized, or outright denied illegitimate state violence. One
product of this research (Sutton and Norgaard, 2013) is a comparison of “cul-
tures of denial” (Cohen, 2001) of state violations of human rights in the United
States and Argentina, looking at the role of ideologies of patriotism and national
security and the social organization of silence and talk in relation to such events.
In contrast, this article is largely centered on the Argentine case and the
advancement of a torture-rejecting culture in the context of memory and human
rights struggles in the country.
This paper focuses on the 20 interviews that I conducted in Argentina, my
country of origin, and draws on the voices and perspectives of interviewees to
explore the connection between memory building and views on torture. Despite
the relatively small sample, these in-depth interviews offer a textured and rich
account of the experiences and perspectives of a variety of people, including
those at opposite ends of the political spectrum. The purpose of this approach
is not to produce statistical generalizations or universal claims but to explore
in some detail the effects of social context and interactions on the ways in which
individuals experienced, grappled with, and made meaning of information of
human rights violations by their governments. This construction of meaning
includes “cognition, affect, [and] intentions,” and it is especially important to

the extent that it translates into concrete everyday practices and political
action/inaction (Maxwell, 2005: 22).
The sample in Argentina was made up of 10 men and 10 women who ranged
in age from 39 to 66 years old. They included people in a variety of occupations,
such as educators, homemakers, business and community entrepreneurs, blue-
collar and domestic workers, professionals, a priest, and staff members of non-
profit or public-sector organizations. The majority of the interviewees had at
least some college education. Interviewees had participated in a wide array of
organizations including cooperatives, youth-oriented organizations, activist
groups, political parties, neighborhood assemblies, human rights organiza-
tions, community centers in poor areas, an association to help ill people, and
religious organizations.
Interviews in Argentina were conducted in Spanish and focused on partici-
pants’ memory of their perceptions and experiences in relation to state terrorist
practices during the last military dictatorship. Interviewees talked about their
awareness or lack thereof of practices such as torture, illegal detention, and
disappearance perpetrated by state officials during the military regime. They
reflected on their own experiences as well as on the broader political context.
These were retrospective accounts and thus not simply transparent reflections
of how participants had felt and acted decades earlier. They were also likely
influenced by the public debates and politics that shaped the process of democ-
ratization. While there are limitations to this type of memory work, the gap
between actual events and narration gave participants the opportunity for
introspection, reflection with the benefit of hindsight, and even self-criticism.
Thinking About Torture
The Emergence of a “Torture-Sustaining Reality”
Although this article focuses on the responses of people in Argentina, its

argument grew out of the cross-national comparison. In the United States, inter-
viewees reflected on the U.S.-led “war on terror” and were asked about their
awareness of human rights abuses in such contexts. Information about extraor-
dinary renditions, waterboarding, and cruel treatment of detainees in U.S.-run
prisons in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Guantánamo had been available in the media.
While a number of interviewees were critical of these developments, others
ignored, avoided thinking about, or justified state-sponsored human rights vio-
lations, including torture, under particular circumstances (see Sutton and
Norgaard, 2013). Justificatory attitudes were consistent with the political envi-
ronment in the United States after 9/11 and with the George W. Bush adminis-
tration’s authorization of harsh interrogation tactics, including some denounced
as torture (see, e.g., Constitution Project, 2013). Polls show that whereas the
majority of the U.S. public has opposed torture,2 increasing numbers of people
have been leaning toward the acceptance of torture in some scenarios, such as
the torture of suspected terrorists in order to save lives (WPO, 2008).
Political developments in the post-9/11 United States nourished what schol-
ars such as Ronald Crelinsten (2003) call a “torture-sustaining reality.”
According to Crelinsten, “to enable torture to be practised systematically and

routinely, not only do torturers have to be trained and prepared, but wider ele-
ments of society must also be prepared and, in a sense, trained to accept that
such things go on” (295–296). In other words, a process of legitimation is required
to break with an established social consensus against torture (for example,
reflected in national and international law). This process of legitimation has a
discursive dimension, as it entails a set of narratives disseminated by the state,
the media, and various institutions. The emergence of a torture-sustaining real-
ity depends on concrete political situations, but trends toward securitization,
including the declaration and normalization of “states of exception” (Agamben,
2005), seem fertile soil for the justification of torture. Under such circumstances,
for the sake of “security,” governments have an easier time circumventing or
outright violating prevalent ethical and legal principles. Buzan, Wæver, and de
Wilde (1998: 23–24) argued that a public issue is securitized when it “is pre-
sented as an existential threat, requiring emergency measures and justifying
actions outside the normal bounds of political procedure.” In this sense, a “pow-
erful and dangerous enemy” can be defined as such an existential threat
(Crelinsten, 2003: 296). Notably, securitization requires a certain willingness of
the general population to join the efforts (both practically and ideologically) or
at least to turn a blind eye when they involve abuse. Torture and detention with-
out due process, while not advertised by governments, can become a “public
secret” (Taussig, 1999: 5) that sectors of society may be more willing to live with
during “unusual times.” Thus, we can think of securitization as potentially fos-
tering a torture-sustaining reality in particular historical moments.
In the United States, heightened securitization followed the 9/11 terrorist
attacks, and this response was accompanied by a set of official narratives that
enabled torture by U.S. representatives in the context of the “war on terror.”
According to Jackson (2007: 356), these legitimating narratives included the
framing of the 9/11 “terrorist attacks as ‘acts of war,’ ” discourse promoting a
morally charged Us vs. Them mentality, and the construction of the war on ter-
ror as a “new kind of war” that required a new paradigm rendering interna-
tional conventions against torture obsolete and inapplicable to enemy
combatants. This type of discourse had resonance with part of our U.S. sample
of interviewees (see Sutton and Norgaard, 2013). Such responses overlapped
with the way some of the Argentine interviewees felt about the mission of the
military dictatorship at the time. While there are significant differences between
the two cases, there were similar dynamics in terms of discourses on patriotism
and national security, Us vs. Them attitudes, and the war framing (in the
Argentine case, a “war against subversion”). In other words, during the mili-
tary dictatorship a torture-sustaining reality developed, and disappearances
were rationalized by the popularized idea that those targeted “must have done
something”— even as many people claimed not to know what was happening.
Here I am particularly interested in some of the continuities and changes in
perspective that appeared among Argentine interviewees, especially those
who had ideological affinities with the military regime.
Toward a Torture-Rejecting Culture? Argentina as a Case Study
In Argentina the process of democratization, the memory work and educa-

tion of human rights organizations, the trials of perpetrators, and state policies

endorsing human rights have cumulatively contributed to a climate in which

even those who were staunch supporters of the military regime during that
period have a hard time justifying state-sponsored torture. Human rights work
and discourse have helped move toward a torture-rejecting culture. Building
on Crelinsten’s insights about the creation of a torture-sustaining reality, I ven-
ture into the cultural terrain in which such a reality is interpreted, problema-
tized, and rejected. I examine the language and discourses that this rejection
entails. I use the term “culture” instead of “reality” to signal the contested,
fluid, and even ambivalent nature of such rejection.
Substantial consensus against torture in Argentina is reflected not only in the
law but in the findings, for example, of a 2008 poll of 22 nations that place
Argentina among the countries in which the public most strongly supports
clear rules against torture, including in relation to suspected terrorists. This
unequivocal position was voiced by a large majority of those surveyed in
Argentina, with 76 percent aligning themselves with the view that “clear rules
against torture should be maintained because any use of torture is immoral and
will weaken international human rights standards against torture” (Council on
Foreign Relations, 2011: 11, 40). This finding can also be placed in the context of
strong support of broader human rights standards in the country, including
several opinion dimensions on which Argentina ranked high or exceptionally
high: support for freedom of expression (84 percent), governmental efforts to
prevent ethno-racial discrimination (82 percent), an active role for the United
Nations in promoting human rights principles in member states (91 percent),
and UN efforts to further women’s rights even when it was suggested that this
might conflict with internal affairs (78 percent).
The promotion of a human rights culture, including the construction of a
torture-rejecting culture, requires an ongoing commitment and reinforcement
by social actors perceived as legitimate. While the Argentine interviewees in
this study tended to condemn torture unequivocally and to embrace human
rights values, some interviewees still held onto elements of core ideological
discourses that gained force during the dictatorship and that helped legitimate
the regime’s actions (e.g., the use of the blanket term “subversion” to depict
political dissidents, the idea that siding with the military was a necessity given
the existential threat that “subversion” presented, and the view of the military
as fighting a “war,” though not even the rules of war ultimately applied). These
ideological threads emerge in the ways interviewees narrated concrete events
about the dictatorship time and their views before and after that period.
Remembering State Terrorism
The interviewees varied in terms of how much they said they knew, during
the dictatorship, about state terrorist activities such as torture, clandestine
detentions, and disappearance. Their responses ranged from not being aware
of, having bits and pieces of information but not imagining the magnitude of
the atrocity to knowing people directly targeted (e.g., relatives, friends,
acquaintances) and/or being themselves survivors who experienced imprison-
ment, torture, disappearance, and/or exile in the flesh. Instances of denial,

including situations of “knowing and not-knowing” (Cohen, 2001), also

appeared in the narratives (see Sutton and Norgaard, 2013). How much people
really knew about or turned a blind eye to state terrorist activities is still the
subject of contention and hard feelings in Argentine society. For example, with
regard to claims of ignorance, Sara—a Jewish woman who had been politically
active in her youth—responded:
The one who didn’t know didn’t want to know, because it was a screaming
secret everywhere. . . . On TV the news programs didn’t say anything, but you
would buy the newspaper La Opinión and it was all there, it told everything—
they kidnapped and tortured Timerman [publisher of La Opinión] for a reason.
. . . The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo circled around the pyramid [of the Plaza de
Mayo] for a reason. . . . The families that were Jewish were asking for help at
. . . the DAIA [Delegación de Asociaciones Israelitas Argentinas (Delegation of
Israeli Argentine Associations)]. . . . The one who didn’t know didn’t want to
know, preferred to continue living in a Tupper[ware container].3
In retrospect, interviewees who reported not knowing had to grapple with

that position. For example, Santiago, who had participated in a Catholic group
with some military connections, explained that during the dictatorship he
“didn’t accept that there was torture, [he thought] that all those things that
were said were lies, that there were excesses of war, that people died like in all
wars.” Santiago no longer denied the military engagement in torture and
related actions but still struggled to make sense of his past position:
Yes, unconsciously we wanted to cover it up. . . . It is a phenomenon that, when

you look at it now, you say, “How could I . . . ?” It is a challenge to [one’s] intel-
ligence. How could it be that way? How could I have been in such a comfort-
able situation? . . . The power of communications is huge, so when you have,
on the one hand, a whole propaganda [apparatus] that manages all informa-
tion, and on the other hand, when you really, from your deepest convictions,
you are totally against having the country run by Marxists, Leninists . . . if you
have to choose, well yes, unfortunately the world is divided in two.
Santiago and many other people in Argentina perceived the situation during
the dictatorship dichotomously and saw the military as needed to stop the
advancement of communism and ensure security. Aspects of this framing have
persisted over time, even as other attitudes have shifted.
Irene, who was kidnapped by the regime when she was a teenager, dedi-
cated her life to human rights activism and talked about different periods that
marked the way in which significant sectors of society dealt with the informa-
tion on state violations of human rights. She developed this analysis as part of
collective reflections in the human rights field:
Here there were three phrases that somewhat account for what the public opin-
ion was. First, when they [repressive forces] would take people, it was “There
must be a reason for it,” justifying the fact that people were being kidnapped.
. . . Then, in another period, starting in ’84 . . . with the advent of democracy
and the knowledge of testimonies that gained public status, . . . it was “How
terrible, what a horror, I didn’t know anything.” And then, in the era of
Menemism, it was “Well, let’s forget, we need to look toward the future.” So,

what I always say is that what happened here during state terrorism was man-
aged, at the level of society, in the manner of a family secret: “You don’t talk
about that.” It’s as if the approach to a traumatic issue always involves a very
large quota of psychic suffering, so it is avoided. And that’s what has hap-
pened here with this issue, so in some ways it is still something that is difficult,
it continues being a traumatic issue, [but things] have changed a lot neverthe-
less.
The transformation that Irene mentioned hints at the momentum that human
rights organizations’ demands have gained, particularly in the past decade,
and the active role that state institutions have played in promoting the end of
impunity for crimes against humanity. The unfolding of the trials across the
country and in several tribunals constitutes history in the making, and the pub-
lic discussion of these issues adds to the backdrop against which individual
attitudes about human rights violations, including torture, are formed.
Views on Torture
The changing political context is important for understanding contemporary

views of torture in Argentina. Ramón, a university professor, pointed out that
in a country like Argentina, after the experience lived, there’s a basic platform
of rejection [of human rights violations like the ones committed by the dictator-
ship]. I think that this has rather deep roots, and very complex things would
have to occur in order to take a step backward. I believe that there is already a
citizen consciousness about certain matters that is very difficult to reverse.
Indeed, Argentine interviewees expressed overall a strong rejection of tor-

ture, often unequivocally. They used phrasing such as “the worst that can be
done to a person . . . always unjustifiable” (Clemente), “never justified” (Cocó),
“something terrible. . . . I wish that it be eradicated, that it does not exist any-
more” (Elena), an “expression of the maximum violence by a dominant class
over other social sectors and individuals” (Enrique), “the practice of evil in one
of its most pure states. Total lack of respect for the other, the inability to see the
other as a subject” (Fernanda), “something dreadful” (Francisco), “a crime
against humanity, . . . an aberrant crime” (Irene), “an aberration, . . . never justi-
fied even when other lives are at risk” (Juan), actions geared toward “the total
subjugation of the other . . . to break the identity, to break the other as an ‘I’ [a
subject] with integrity” (María), “a violation” (Olivia), “a capital crime . . . I
would never be close to a political movement . . . that has in any way a view,
even attenuated, [that includes] the possibility of torture or the disappearance
of people” (Rodolfo), “totally unjustifiable . . . either emotional or physical”
(Sara). These kinds of views were expressed by people of different social back-
grounds, community involvement, and political orientations.
At the same time, some interviewees, while rejecting torture, explored their
feelings with regard to situations that might challenge their ethical stance. They
referred to extreme situations calling for difficult choices, such as a loved one
at risk or varieties of the “ticking-bomb” scenario (see Luban, 2005, for a cri-
tique). On the left-leaning side of the political spectrum, Alejo said that when

thinking about torture “the first thing that crosses my mind is that it is abso-
lutely unacceptable, in any situation,” but then he presented the hypothetical
scenario of a CIA operative
with a plan to bomb a nuclear power plant . . . and the guy will kill three mil-
lion people. . . . Frankly, I would beat the hell out of him. What I would never
do, never do, is apply a picana [electric torture device] or anything like that. But
those are limits that are much more individual, but they need to be promoted
as a policy, because if not, in the heat of battle you tend to do things that are
paid for dearly later—dearly in terms of the kind of society that they will gen-
erate.
On the more conservative political side, Lucía also rejected torture, several
times: “I don’t agree with torture,” she said. However, she tested this commit-
ment against the possibility of her child’s or grandchild’s being killed: “At the
level of feelings, if they touch something of mine, I believe that I would get a
revolver and kill [the perpetrator], and, what’s more, I would kill him very
slowly.” Similarly, Santiago said, “If the life of your son is at risk, and you have
the guy who has the information in front of you—let’s not talk about torture—
I would beat the hell out of him as much as possible until he tells me the truth.”
He explained: “The limits are very difficult to set. In principle . . . I don’t accept
it [torture], I find it repugnant . . . that degradation of the human being.” In
these passages, interviewees navigated conflicted positions and engaged the
possibility of torture as something that they themselves might contemplate if
put in specific situations. Alejo made the point, however, that beyond indi-
vidual feelings, the limits should be promoted by policy in line with an “ethical
limit that is related to the type of world that we want to build.”
Interviewees’ perspectives about torture were not simply considered in the
abstract but were entwined with a reflection of the concrete Argentine experi-
ence and the interviewees’ memory of the dictatorship. In this sense, individual
attitudes reflected not only personal experience but also wider political con-
texts. Here I highlight the ways in which human rights discourse filtered
through interviewees’ narratives. In Argentina, the imprint of human rights
discourse is not only present in public demonstrations and protests, politicians’
speeches, and cultural productions but part of the urban landscape. Moving
through the city of Buenos Aires and the surrounding metropolitan area, one
can see graffiti and stencils demanding juicio y castigo (trial and punishment),
paintings depicting the Madres de Plaza de Mayo headscarves, silhouettes
evoking the bodies of the disappeared, and street announcements encouraging
individuals of a certain age who have doubts about their identity to approach
human rights organizations. Some of this study’s interviewees were active in
these efforts, either as members of human rights groups or as citizens who
echoed their discourse or supported their actions.
At the time of the study, Maureen led an organization helping destitute
youth, but she had a history of strong support for the human rights organiza-
tions’ activities. In the interview, she referred to the use of the picana during the
dictatorship as wreaking “havoc” and repudiated other human rights abuses.
She said that after a period of not wanting to see what was going on, she
had ended up joining the human rights organizations’ political protest,

participating in marches and escraches (public shaming) at sites where clandes-

tine detention centers had operated. Maureen conceived of these practices as la
memoria viva (living memory): “I felt part of a living memory that accompanied
those who had been [there].” Her condemnation of human rights violations
emerged not in the abstract but through the testimonies of people closely
affected by them (e.g., a roommate whose family had been persecuted by the
military and who had herself been held in captivity temporarily). Her attitudes
about these issues were constructed in the process of participation in public
acts of denunciation and remembrance. In her protests she joined in the human
rights groups’ demand for justice. She said that “recognizing our memory . . .
is the way in which I believe that we can make this ‘never again’ possible.”
Along with truth and memory, justice—not forgiveness or reconciliation—
has been a central demand of the human rights movement. This demand has
had ripple effects. Leonor, a working-class member of an Evangelical congrega-
tion, stressed the importance of justice for a democratic culture and the eradica-
tion of torture. She hoped for “democracy, under the concept that with torture
you don’t get anywhere . . . that if someone tortures, well, [he/she] should have
justice, should have punishment.” While Leonor was not politically active, her
ideas reflected the human rights organizations’ demand for the intervention of
the justice system to redress crimes against humanity (Filippini, 2011).
An interesting dimension of the responses is the shift exhibited by some
interviewees, particularly those ideologically aligned with the military.
However, given that discussions about torture were embedded in concrete
political experience, even when rejecting state-sponsored torture these accounts
were fraught with tension and ambivalence. Interviewees were trying to come
to terms with perspectives that were unacceptable in the light of the current
state of public knowledge while also remaining committed to a certain ideol-
ogy and language that legitimated human rights abuses in the first place.
Amadeo, a highly educated conservative Catholic, had ideologically sup-
ported the military and had a history of involvement in various conservative
political and religious groups. Talking about torture during the dictatorship, he
said:
I lived somewhat distant from these kinds of matters, torture, etc., but I didn’t
really want to find out much about this issue. I didn’t want to find out, I didn’t
care. [This is connected to] what I told you about an existing social mandate,
which in certain ways I accepted, that “I don’t want to find out” attitude. And
I felt it was a big hypocrisy when Alfonsinism came and when Argentine soci-
ety found out, they rent their garments, [saying], “But how did they do this?”—
Yes, they did it because you let them do it, and because it was like that, what
had to happen happened. So I felt it was very hypocritical, especially that, to
be shocked about what had happened. . . . None of us assumed that we had
been participants in what happened and that that was what we wanted.
Here Amadeo was talking about what he called an implicit social mandate
given to the military to end the armed groups’ political violence—letting the
military accomplish its goals without asking questions, looking the other way.
Though he did not want to know about torture, he had developed a justifica-
tion of the practice. He explained his views about torture with a sense of

puzzlement about his past attitudes: “To me now, it strikes me, but at that
moment I even had a justificatory view of torture. It strikes me, because in the
books I would say otherwise. See how one deceives oneself. The capacity for
self-deception or justification is very great.” Asked how he used to justify tor-
ture, he responded:
For a reason of common good—but, for example, an example that isn’t real, I
remember the River [soccer team] stadium, the police arrive, arrest a man who
says he has put a [device] . . . that will wipe out 20,000 children in an hour. . . .
Well, then, I said, obviously there are reasons that justify that these people . . .
it’s not fair that 20,000 children would die because you say to this gentleman
“Would you like to testify or not to testify?” That seemed ridiculous to me. I
had that reasoning.
Amadeo had justified torture in terms of the “ticking-bomb” thought exper-

iment, an example that no longer seems persuasive today. His change in per-
spective is evidenced in the way he distances himself from “unreal” examples
and his bewilderment about his own capacity for self-deception and justifica-
tion. This shift is not isolated but related to his revision of his previous strong
endorsement of the military standpoint.
Similarly, Lucía, who belonged to a military family, had fully embraced the
military ideology at the time of the dictatorship, but her views had shifted
somewhat. At the time of the regime, she was afraid of the bombs and other
violent actions of the guerrilla groups and saw the military as defenders of her
security, her “way of life,” and the well-being of her family. She was eager for
the conflict to end at all costs. She and other people in her circle of friends sup-
ported the idea that “they should all be killed.” Thus the military measures to
stop people considered subversives were seen as fair game. During the dicta-
torship, Lucía was unwilling to dig into exactly what the fate of individuals
captured by the military was, but in general terms she trusted the military and
justified its actions. Later on, she toned down this position: “Then with the
years, one starts thinking, well, the military also had its excesses,” and she was
critical of the clandestine nature of the operations. Though the word “excesses”
is euphemistic, she did ultimately label some of these “excesses” as “a horror.”
The phrase “then with the years” is important here, because it implicitly signals
the opportunity presented by democratization for reflection and a certain shift
in perspective. Perhaps part of the shift had to do with her distancing from the
military side of her family, but more broadly it seems related to the transition
to democracy, including the public exposure of the dictatorship’s atrocities and
some measure of justice in a climate of greater freedom and political debate.
Even with the ups and downs in public opinion and visibility since the tran-
sition to democracy, human rights organizations have been relentless in their
efforts to keep this memory alive, confronting people with the information and
shaping public debate. The interpretative context has clearly changed and
allowed some perspectives to be modified, but even in the shift there is also
persistence. One of the ways in which a certain willingness to recognize human
rights violations committed by the dictatorship is qualified or neutralized is
through the reiteration of previous interpretative frames: the idea of “a war,”
the concept of “two demons” popularized during the transition to democracy,

and, more recently, the trope of “complete memory” advanced by the military
and supportive civilian organizations (Salvi, 2010).
Cocó, a middle-class and religious (Catholic) interviewee, personally knew
people killed or disappeared during the dictatorship, including persons she
had appreciated, admired, or respected. However, she was ideologically closer
to the military regime and blamed the disappeared for their fate. She had
adopted the official discourse that depicted the government as fighting a war
against subversion. In fact, she kept using the term “subversion,” a blanket
label that in practice included armed groups as well as people who had never
taken up arms. Similarly to other interviewees who had supported the military
regime, Cocó believed that the people targeted were in large part to be blamed
for their fate—that they took up arms and died by “their own law.” At the same
time, she acknowledged that “anyone” could “fall” (be captured by the mili-
tary)—so much so that she strove not to be “confused,” presumably as a sub-
versive. When asked about her views on torture, she said that it was never
justified. And yet when it came to assessing the military’s actions she oscillated
between full-fledged condemnation and attempts to justify them. In telling
about the case of bodies thrown into a dam in one Argentine province, Cocó
expressed disapproval, starting the story by saying “It can’t be that” such
actions were committed. Her phrasing expressed the unacceptability of events
that she now considers factual, things she “found out as [she] got older”:
Well, that was total madness. I think this is because they [the military] did not
know what to do, they were overwhelmed, because here the army, . . . given
that there was never a problem except at the time of Malvinas [Malvinas/
Falkland Islands war], they played a little bit to be . . . Well, I am not going to
deprecate the Argentine army so much, no? But they hadn’t had something as
serious, or a war like . . . No, to me, they were overwhelmed.
In Cocó’s statements we can see a glimpse of outrage at the military’s actions

at the same time as an effort to justify the actions of members of an institution
that, deep down, she respects. The idea that the military was “overwhelmed”
appeared several times in the interview. Furthermore, various statements of
recognition of illegal state violence were neutralized by pointing out that “the
others” (“subversives”) had also engaged in illegitimate violence.
Rodolfo, a middle-class interviewee affiliated with the party that promoted
the first trial of the juntas (the Unión Cívica Radical), was emphatic in his rejec-
tion of torture:
To me torture is a capital crime against the human being, no matter where it

comes from—the state, subversion, anywhere, I do not . . . I don’t distinguish
that. To me, obviously, state repression has much more . . . let’s say, culpability
. . . or responsibility, precisely because the state has a lot of mechanisms of great
magnitude to confront incipient subversive movements.
While his reference to “subversive movements” echoes the military rhetoric,

Rodolfo drew on aspects of positions advanced by human rights organizations,
which emphasized that the actions of armed political groups were not equiva-
lent to those of the dictatorship. However, he embraced the “theory of the two

demons,” which the leading human rights organizations rejected: “In Argentina
there is always talk about the two demons, that what happened to ordinary
people is having to choose between two demons. The question—I think very
few people dare to respond publicly—is, if you had to choose between the two
demons and there was no . . . third position possible, which demon would you
choose?” He settled the question by choosing the “demon that is against the
guerrillas.” He added: “This is a definition that anyone would give you anony-
mously but not publicly, perhaps, because it is politically incorrect.” The spec-
ter of what people really think is embedded in this statement. Have the struggles
over memory produced real changes, or is a discourse of human rights merely
masking attitudes that would support a government that engages in torture
despite assertions to the contrary? Furthermore, how are we to reconcile
Rodolfo’s anonymous definition, implicitly aligning him with the military,
with his assertion that he could not contemplate being associated with any
organization that engaged in torture and disappearance? This type of ambiva-
lence and contradiction puts in evidence the bumpy terrain of memory con-
struction and the challenges faced on the road toward a human rights culture.
The idea of the two demons can slip into the notion of “complete memory”
and the companion idea of a complete justice voiced by Cocó. She kept asking,
“Whose human rights?”—referring to the human rights of the people killed by
members of the guerrilla groups. Her reflections pointed to the idea of “justice
for both sides”:
On one hand you say, “Yes, they [the military] deserve it in some cases,” right?
Because you cannot deprive [people] of their children and do all the things that
they did for not knowing what to do. Because let’s realize that they were not
prepared—that this government, this army, I think, was not prepared for such
a thing.
In this passage and other parts of the interview one can see the difficulties of
coming to terms with the past and reconciling dissonant positions. Cocó’s ide-
ological schema remains in many ways intact, referring to “a war,” “subver-
sion,” and “their own law.” However, in her current view one can also see the
impact of both the language of human rights (even if used in the service of
complete memory) and the public acknowledgment of state atrocities (e.g., her
reference to the bodies in the dam and, in another part of the interview, to the
testimony of a family friend who had survived a clandestine detention center).
The idea of justice for “both sides” elides the reasons the justice system came
so late to the bulk of the trials for crimes against humanity (e.g., military and
political pressure leading to impunity laws that impeded the trials) as well as
the primary method by which the de facto military government dealt with
members of political armed groups when it had the opportunity (not the appli-
cation of the rule of law but state terrorism). Irene, a veteran human rights
activist, pointed out that “there always were tools to combat any action in a
particular historical moment in society, including common crimes,” but the
military “wiped out these tools” and went on to “kill all the people from the
organizations.” Furthermore, she pointed out that a statute of limitations
applied to the actions of members of the nonstate armed groups that operated

during the 1970s but this did not apply to state crimes against humanity.4 She
continued:
How is it that none of the people who were in the armed organizations had a
right to trial? They were kidnapped and assassinated. . . . Instead crimes against
humanity, such as state terrorism, do not have a statute of limitations. This is
what society has as a pending debt, so that it does not happen again, because
society has tools available to judge certain crimes. And it had that, it always
did. Conversely, what it didn’t have was the possibility of judging state terror-
ism.
The positions voiced by Irene and Cocó illustrate the contested and ideo-
logically charged terrain of current political debates and the construction of
memory about a violent political past in Argentina. Perspectives about torture
are inscribed within this unfolding political and legal context and in relation to
shifts in the way historical events are interpreted as time passes (see, e.g.,
Filippini, 2011).
Conclusion
The memory work spearheaded by human rights organizations and the con-
crete transitional justice responses by the Argentine state, particularly during
the past decade, have shaped the ways in which ordinary people make sense
of human rights violations. The interviews in this study reflect a number of
advances toward the creation of a torture-rejecting culture in the country, but
the building of such a culture is a work in progress that is not homogeneous or
devoid of contradictions. How are we to make sense of the entwined threads of
acknowledgment and justification of human rights abuses that appear in some
interviews? The persistence of certain discourses that were functional to state
terrorism raises the following question: Might some people fall back on old
tropes should the circumstances change again? However, it is not a minor detail
that former supporters of the military dictatorship now regret key aspects of
their past views (even though some of this is sometimes qualified and justifica-
tory stances still emerge in the narratives). Some might argue that what many
people really think is contrary to a public discourse in which torture has no
place. It may not be helpful, however, to set up a strict dichotomy between
internal and outward expression, as public discourse helps to shape what peo-
ple think (though not in a deterministic way) and can also create a context
favorable for the defense of human rights.
As Leigh Payne (2008: 39) argues in relation to “unsettling accounts” by con-
fessed perpetrators of human rights violations (including in Argentina), not
even perpetrators can avoid the language of human rights more widely present
in democracy:
Although a new idiom may merely disguise old attitudes, it can also play a
transformative role. In shifting the terms of the debate, perpetrators reflect a
shift in norms. By articulating those norms, they diffuse them. In diffusing
them, perpetrators not only satisfy the guardians of democratic order but also
incorporate the democratic currency of debate into their own segments of

society. Everyone, in other words, becomes a democrat, at least linguistically.

Authoritarianism, albeit defended as politically expedient in the past, garners
little support today. . . . By using the language of human rights, justice, and free
speech, perpetrators’ confessions reinforce that language as a measure for
assessing democracy. Groups within society may not agree on definitions of
human-rights violations, but they agree in condemning them as a whole.
If even perpetrators feel compelled to use the language of human rights, it is

not surprising that a discursive or attitudinal change also took place among
bystanders, including those ideologically aligned with the military dictator-
ship. This kind of shift helps to broaden support not only for the dissemination
of democratic norms but for the creation of a culture in which torture is not
accepted under any circumstances. The collective memory-building work of
the human rights movement has been essential to advancing this position.
If collective memory is important partly because of its power to shape the
present and the future, then the emergence of a torture-rejecting culture may be
one measure of that influence. To the extent that such a culture becomes a thick
thread firmly woven into the social fabric, one might say that something has
been learned from the atrocities of the past. However, the pedagogical function
of memory in support of human rights is certainly not guaranteed. The contra-
dictions discussed and the contentious politics of the present that mold mem-
ory itself mean that the “labors of memory” (Jelin, 2003: 5) may yield disparate
and contingent results. Working to nourish and strengthen a torture-rejecting
culture is a vital task for civil society and governments alike, and it is key to
providing the framework for redressing not only the human rights abuses of
the past but also those that continue in the present.
Notes
1. Soon after the end of the dictatorship, the Comisión Nacional Sobre la Desaparición de
Personas (National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons—CONADEP) recorded at least
8,960 cases of people disappeared, noting that it was a partial list. Human rights organizations
customarily invoke an estimated number of 30,000 disappeared, a figure that has acquired strong
symbolic and political meaning. See Brysk (1994) on the difficulties of producing an exact count
of disappearances.
2. An analysis of 32 polls during the 2001–2009 period shows that the majority of the U.S. pub-
lic (mean = 55 percent) opposed torture when asked the question in relation to suspected terrorists
(Gronke et al., 2010).
3. This and all other passages originally in Spanish are my translations.
4. See Guariglia (2011) for a discussion of national and international doctrine concerning the
definition and prosecution of crimes against humanity as well as the jurisprudence that applies
in Argentina (including Supreme Court decisions) in relation to criminal actions perpetrated by
nonstate actors.
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Thinking About Torture

The Emergence of a “Torture-Sustaining Reality”

Although this article focuses on the responses of people in Argentina, its

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Toward a Torture-Rejecting Culture? Argentina as a Case Study

In Argentina the process of democratization, the memory work and educa-

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endorsing human rights have cumulatively contributed to a climate in which

Remembering State Terrorism

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including situations of “knowing and not-knowing” (Cohen, 2001), also

In retrospect, interviewees who reported not knowing had to grapple with

Yes, unconsciously we wanted to cover it up. . . . It is a phenomenon that, when

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The changing political context is important for understanding contemporary

Indeed, Argentine interviewees expressed overall a strong rejection of tor-

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participating in marches and escraches (public shaming) at sites where clandes-

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Amadeo had justified torture in terms of the “ticking-bomb” thought exper-

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In Cocó’s statements we can see a glimpse of outrage at the military’s actions

To me torture is a capital crime against the human being, no matter where it

While his reference to “subversive movements” echoes the military rhetoric,

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society. Everyone, in other words, becomes a democrat, at least linguistically.

If even perpetrators feel compelled to use the language of human rights, it is

Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo

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Downloaded from lap.sagepub.com at SUNY ALBANY LIBRARY on October 10, 2016

Downloaded from lap.sagepub.com at SUNY ALBANY LIBRARY on October 10, 2016

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