Dissensual Subjects: Memory, Human Rights, and Postdictatorship in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay 0810136368, 978-0810136366

Table of contents :
Contents......Page 6
List of Illustrations......Page 8
Acknowledgments......Page 10
Introduction......Page 14
Chapter 1. Nunca más/Nunca mais: The Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorial Culture......Page 42
Chapter 2. The Politics and Aesthetics of Resistance: Memory and Subjectivity at the Memorial da Resistência in São Paulo......Page 74
Chapter 3. Melancholy and Dissensus: Postdictatorial Subjectivity at the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria in Montevideo......Page 112
Chapter 4. The Subjects of Memory and Human Rights: Aesthetics and Politics at the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires......Page 152
Conclusion: Beyond the Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorship......Page 198
Notes......Page 208
Bibliography......Page 246
Index......Page 258

Citation preview

Dissensual Subjects

Critical Insurgencies A Book Series of the Critical Ethnic Studies Association Series editors: Jodi A. Byrd and Michelle M. Wright Critical Insurgencies features activists and scholars, as well as artists and other media makers, who forge new theoretical and political practices that unsettle the nation-​state, neoliberalism, carcerality, settler colonialism, Western hegemony, legacies of slavery, colonial racial formations, gender binaries, and ableism, and challenge all forms of oppression and state violence through generative future imaginings. About CESA  The Critical Ethnic Studies Association organizes projects and programs that engage ethnic studies while reimagining its futures. Grounded in multiple activist formations within and outside institutional spaces, CESA aims to develop an approach to intellectual and political projects animated by the spirit of decolonial, antiracist, antisexist, and other global liberationist movements. These movements enabled the creation of ethnic studies and continue to inform its political and intellectual projects.

www​.criticalethnicstudies​.org

Dissensual Subjects Memory, Human Rights, and Postdictatorship in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay

Andrew C. Rajca

Northwestern University Press Evanston, Illinois

Northwestern University Press www​.nupress​.northwestern​.edu Copyright © 2018 by Northwestern University Press. Published 2018. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Rajca, Andrew C., author. Title: Dissensual subjects : memory, human rights, and postdictatorship in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay / Andrew C. Rajca. Other titles: Critical insurgencies. Description: Evanston, Illinois : Northwestern University Press, 2018. | Series: Critical insurgencies Identifiers: LCCN 2017039350 | ISBN 9780810136366 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780810136373 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780810136380 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Collective memory—Argentina. | Collective memory— Brazil. | Collective memory—Uruguay. | Collective memory in art. | Memorials—Argentina. | Memorials—Brazil. | Memorials—Uruguay. | Dictatorship—Argentina—20th century. | Dictatorship—Brazil—20th century. | Dictatorship—Uruguay—20th century. | Victims of statesponsored terrorism—Argentina. | Victims of state-sponsored terrorism— Brazil. | Victims of state-sponsored terrorism—Uruguay. | Human rights— Argentina. | Human rights—Brazil. | Human rights—Uruguay. Classification: LCC F2849.2 .R327 2018 | DDC 980.03—dc23 LC record available at ​https://catalog.loc.gov/vwebv/search?search​Code=LCCN&​ searchArg=2017039350&searchType=1&permalink=y

Contents

List of Illustrations

vii

Acknowledgments ix Introduction 3 Chapter 1. Nunca más/Nunca mais: The Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorial Culture

31

Chapter 2. The Politics and Aesthetics of Resistance: Memory and Subjectivity at the Memorial da Resistência in São Paulo

63

Chapter 3. Melancholy and Dissensus: Postdictatorial Subjectivity at the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria in Montevideo

101

Chapter 4. The Subjects of Memory and Human Rights: Aesthetics and Politics at the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires

141

Conclusion: Beyond the Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorship

187

Notes 197 Bibliography 235 Index 247

Illustrations

Figure 1. Memorial da Resistência (MDR), 2013

85

Figure 2. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

90

Figure 3. Sérgio Sister, Por ora nada além do óbvio, Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

92

Figure 4. Alípio Freire, RPT-​P1-​X3, Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

93

Figure 5. Carlos Takaoka, Untitled, Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

95

Figure 6. Rita Sipahi, Carta a Camila, Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

97

Figure 7. Anonymous, Caricature, Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013

99

Figure 8. Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria (MUME), 2013

113

Figure 9. Marta Pagliano, Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo installation at MUME, 2013

124

Figure 10. Marta Pagliano, Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo installation at MUME, 2013

125

Figure 11. Still from Héctor Solari, Libertad installation at MUME, 2010

129

Figure 12. Carta abierta installation at Espacio Memoria, 2013

146

vii

viii

Illustrations

Figure 13. Arq. Nicolás Arrúe, Presencias installation at Espacio Memoria, 2012

155

Figure 14. Paula Luttringer, El lamento de los muros installation at the Conti, 2012

162

Figure 15. Belén Maynard, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at the Conti, 2011

166

Figure 16. Mariel Alfonso, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at the Conti, 2011

168

Figure 17. Juan Ignacio Sousa, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at the Conti, 2011

169

Figure 18. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the Oxígeno cero series, 2010

172

Figure 19. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the Villa 21-​24 series, 2009

175

Figure 20. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the Villa 21-​24 series, 2009

177

Figure 21. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the Hospital Borda (Los malditos) series, 2011

180

Figure 22. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the La conquista del Indoamericano series, 2010

182

Figure 23. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], from the La conquista del Indoamericano series, 2010

183

Figure 24. La hoja installation at the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos, 2012

189

Acknowledgments

I received much support and encouragement from numerous colleagues during the process of researching and writing this book, and I thank you all for your advice and solidarity with this endeavor. I especially thank two mentors at the University of Arizona, Kátia da Costa Bezerra and Abraham Acosta, for reading and offering insightful comments on early chapter drafts, and for their constant advice and support throughout my graduate career and the process of creating this book. I am inspired by both of you as scholars and teachers, and I am proud to be your colleague. Thank you to my former professors and fellow graduate students at the University of Arizona for creating an enjoyable and productive environment for growth as a scholar. A special thank you to Malcolm Compitello, Laura Gutiérrez, and Hiber Conteris for their contributions to the theoretical and thematic approaches to memory, visual culture, and postdictatorship studies as my project evolved into the present book. Thank you to all of my colleagues who offered support, feedback, and encouragement on this project at conferences and invited lectures and in conversation among friends, especially Susana Draper, Fernando Rosenberg, Rebecca Atencio, Andrés Guzmán, Olimpia Rosenthal, and Juliana Luna Freire. I would also like to thank my wonderful colleagues and students in the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures at the University of South Carolina for their intellectual exchange and support. I particularly want to thank my fellow graduate faculty in the Spanish Program (past and present) for creating a hardworking, collegial environment for our mutual development as scholars and teachers: María Mabrey, Francisco Sánchez, Jorge Camacho, Lucile Charlebois, Eric Holt, Alejandro Bernal, Nina Moreno, Paul Malovrh, Isis Sadek, Raúl Rivera, and Mercedes López. I am especially indebted to the artists, photographers, and curators who allowed me to reproduce the images included in this book. Thank you to Kátia Felipini Neves, Alípio Freire, Nicolás Arrúe, Moira Rubio and Fundación ph15, Paula Luttringer, Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], Elbio Ferrario, and Héctor Solari. ix

x

Acknowledgments

I am also grateful for the funding provided by the University of South Carolina, which was crucial to this project. The research that I conducted at sites of memory in São Paulo, Buenos Aires, and Montevideo was largely supported by an ASPIRE-​1 grant through the Office of the Vice President for Research. I also received two grants from the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures, which enabled me to conduct initial research in Buenos Aires and to complete writing my manuscript. Thank you. I also thank Gianna Mosser at Northwestern University Press and the Critical Insurgencies series editors, Jodi A. Byrd and Michelle M. Wright, for their support and for believing in this project. A big thank-​you to Elizabeth Berg for her superb copyediting, and to Nathan MacBrien and the entire editorial team and staff at Northwestern University Press for their work in producing this book. Thank you also to the anonymous peer evaluators of the book for productive criticism and suggestions to improve the final product. Thank you to my parents, Chris and Mary, and my siblings, Erin and Mike, for your unwavering love and support in all facets of life. Finally, to Sara, Bridget, and Eleanor: thank you for being a constant source of joy in my life and for providing me with a daily reminder of why we must fight for both collective and individual rights for all human beings. I love you.

Dissensual Subjects

Introduction

On December 7, 2010, members of the federal and metropolitan police forces converged upon hundreds of families who had occupied large portions of the Parque Indoamericano, the second-​largest public park in Buenos Aires, Argentina, located in the working-​class southern part of the city. The occupiers, many of whom were immigrants living in the nearby communities of Villa 20, Villa 1-​11-​14, and Los Piletones, had invaded the space the previous evening as an act of protest against the government’s failure to provide housing and social services in their neighborhoods. The police forces were called in to disperse the occupiers and raze the makeshift alternative housing they had built in the park’s vast swaths of abandoned land, and the armed repression resulted in the deaths of two immigrants, Bernardo Salgueiro from Paraguay and Rosemary Chura Puña from Bolivia.1 The following day, nearly one thousand families from poor neighborhoods on the outskirts of Buenos Aires returned to take possession of plots of land in the park and continue the protest. With police now absent from the scene, and the left-​wing federal government and the right-​wing municipal government quarreling over who was responsible for dealing with the situation, violence erupted once again. Some residents of the nearby neighborhoods—­incited by the anti-​immigrant rhetoric of local politicians, including former Buenos Aires mayor and current president Mauricio Macri—­attacked the families, resulting in dozens of injuries and the deaths of two more immigrants, Bolivians Juan Emilio Quispe Castañares and Julio Valero.2 Despite the attack, the occupation continued for another six days until representatives of the federal and municipal governments promised to resolve the protestors’ demands—­a promise that remains largely unfulfilled—­and the National Guard was brought in to remove the families. The sanctioned use of state violence against a group of poor and largely immigrant residents staking a claim for social and economic rights, and the paltry response by both the municipal and federal governments—­and the population at large—­expose the role played by 3

4

Introduction

issues such as class, race, and citizenship in determining who or what counts as subjects of human rights in postdictatorship. The 2010 occupation of the Parque Indoamericano is particularly poignant because it occurred exactly four years after another event in this same space: the dedication of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos (Human Rights Walk, Paseo). Initially created by public order on December 6, 1993,3 and finally completed on December 12, 2006, with the backing of various human rights organizations, the Paseo was conceived as a material and symbolic implementation of the notion of nunca más—­remembering the state violence during the most recent military dictatorship (1976–­ 83) so that such atrocities “never happen again.” As the Friends of the Human Rights Walk (Asociación de Amigos del Paseo de los Derechos Humanos, AAPDDHH) explain, the placement of the Paseo in the Parque Indoamericano was an attempt to “connect the collective memory of our painful past marked by state terrorism with a future of increasing validity of human rights, precisely in the southern zone of the city, the most battered by inequality and exclusion.”4 Today, after years of limited funding and minimal maintenance by the municipal government, the Paseo is inaccessible to the public and in a state of complete disrepair, with the statues, plaques, and trees honoring the memory of the dictatorship’s over thirty thousand “disappeared” either destroyed or falling apart. In response to the violence directed against residents of the zona sur in the wake of the 2010 occupation of the public space where the Paseo is located, the AAPDDHH published a statement on the Memoria abierta website condemning the violence and “the attempt to resolve the conflict by using police force to repress the just demands for decent housing for thousands of families.”5 The group also called for cleaning up the Paseo and opening it once again to the public, while explicitly connecting the political motivations of those disappeared by the military dictatorship with the present struggle “for a more just and supportive society, where the right to decent housing is established and practiced just like all other rights. This was the desire of our disappeared comrades. And it is our desire today.”6 I will return to an analysis of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos in the conclusion of this book, but here I would like to draw attention to the disjunction between the idealized rhetoric of nunca más and the continued use of violence against marginalized populations who do not count as subjects of human rights—­either in the dictatorial past or the democratic present. The call to include economic and social rights (including the right to decent housing) in the consensual understanding

Introduction

5

of human rights as civil and political rights, and the attempt to recuperate the political motivations of the disappeared within this interpretation of social justice, are difficult rhetorical gestures in postdictatorship. The notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture tend to focus on the disappeared, presented as either victimized or heroic figures, and the catastrophic horror of dictatorship and its traumatic effects on the present. Those political subjects who directly suffered from or challenged state terror—­students, intellectuals, armed militant groups, unionized workers, madres, abuelas, hijxs, and so on—­are the marketable subjects of memory and human rights that have dominated postdictatorship studies in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. These are the visible figures of postdictatorial culture, whose undeniably traumatic experiences are at the center of countless works of literary and visual culture, memory spaces and memorials, and academic research and debate in/on the region. Yet, despite the importance of this work, the surfeit of memory narratives displaces and occludes the experiences of nonheroes and nonvictims who continue to be marginalized in postdictatorship, such as those occupying the Parque Indoamericano. These subjectivities do not count in consensual notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. They are excluded from or incorporated within (counter)hegemonic memory narratives about dictatorship, and their appeals for economic and social equality are considered to be something other than human rights in the democratic present. This is evidenced by the invisibility of both the AAPDDHH statement cited above, which survives only on the Memoria abierta website, and the erasure of the Paseo—­left to deteriorate in an inaccessible portion of the Parque Indoamericano and traced only by the single blog post of the AAPDDHH cited above and a broken link on the City of Buenos Aires website.7 My use of this episode is not meant to bemoan the contradictions between universal notions of human rights and their uneven implementation in specific contexts, but rather points to a way to trace the invisibility of certain subjects—­be they human beings, themes, or experiences—­through the foundational paradox of human rights subjectivity. As Joseph R. Slaughter suggests, if “we recognize paradox’s figurative role in human rights instead of treating it as a shameful limitation of human rights discourse and practice, then we can attend to its productive possibilities.”8 In other words, the power of human rights discourse lies in what Slaughter calls the “enabling fiction” of equality under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which creates the conditions of possibility for heterogeneous political

6

Introduction

subjects to test the universal inscription of rights via “nonhegemonic rearticulations of universality’s compass.”9 This approach to human rights “as a complex of contested—­and often contradictory—­principles still in formation, whose fissures, discontinuities, and inconsistencies are both the source of its continued emancipatory potential”10 and a demonstration that “everyone had something else in mind”11 in using the term human rights is key to my critical interrogation of the relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture in the Southern Cone. The contradictory nature of the concept of human rights alluded to by Slaughter echoes the notions of disagreement and dissensus developed by French philosopher Jacques Rancière.12 Through these concepts, Rancière has problematized and redefined ideas generally taken as given, such as politics, democracy, rights, aesthetics, and philosophy itself. He shows the contingent nature of what he calls “the distribution of the sensible”—­the dominant understanding and circulation of concepts, meanings, and material life that organizes social interaction. This allows us to think through the tensions among concepts that produce and distribute meaning but also constitute a space for previously invisible subjectivities to appear in a disruption of the consensual social order. For Rancière, “Disagreement is not misconstruction.  .  .  . Nor is a disagreement some kind of misunderstanding stemming from the imprecise nature of words.  .  .  . Disagreement occurs wherever contention over what speaking means constitutes the very rationality of the speech situation. The interlocutors both understand and do not understand the same thing by the same words.”13 Here he establishes the notion of homonymy14 that is at the center of his philosophical approach, the idea that speaking subjects both understand and do not understand what is meant by any given term, such as human rights. In this sense, disagreement is “a dispute over the object of discussion and over the capacity of those who are making an object of it,”15 which, for Rancière, is equivalent to politics. This dissonance forms the foundation for Rancière’s intellectual project of thinking through the inherent homonymy of any given term or speech situation as the location of political subjectivity within the dominant social order, which he calls the police: “An order of the visible and the sayable that sees that a particular activity is visible and another is not, that this speech is understood as discourse and another as noise.”16 For Rancière politics is any disruption of the consensual order by those anonymous subjects who insert themselves as equals in the realm of

Introduction

7

the visible and the sayable: “By implementing a basically heterogeneous assumption, that of a part of those who have no part, an assumption that . . . demonstrates the sheer contingency of the order, the equality of any speaking being with any other speaking being. Politics occurs where there is a place and a way for two heterogeneous processes to meet.”17 This notion of politics as both a site and a way for two heterogeneous processes to meet at moments of disagreement is essential to understanding how he frames the relationship between politics and aesthetics and the emergence of political subjectivation through the concept of dissensus, which “is not a conflict of interests, opinions or values; it is a division inserted in ‘common sense’: a dispute over what is given and about the frame within which we see something as given.”18 In this book, I conceive of memory and human rights as dissensual subjects in the Rancierean sense: as conceptual sites where dominant notions of what is visible and sayable in postdictatorial culture are contested and anonymous subjects are able to intervene into what constitutes the political. The purpose of Dissensual Subjects is not to offer a comprehensive catalog of the multitude of localized perspectives, experiences, and effects of the military dictatorships that terrorized Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay for the better part of three decades (1960s–­80s). My intent is to focus on points of confluence related to the concepts of memory and human rights articulated through the notion of nunca más/mais, and who or what are the subjects of these discourses, presented in three sites of cultural memory: the Memorial da Resistência (Resistance Memorial, MDR) in São Paulo, Brazil; the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria (Cultural Center and Museum of Memory, MUME) in Montevideo, Uruguay; and the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos (Space for Memory and the Promotion and Defense of Human Rights, EMPDDHH or Espacio Memoria) in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Based on field research at these sites, two of which served as detention and torture centers during dictatorship (MDR and EMPDDHH), I examine the complex and contradictory ways visual art installations engage with the concepts of memory and human rights in these spaces. I am particularly interested in exploring how the tensions between the social science–­based permanent exhibits and humanities-​driven temporary aesthetic interventions introduce perspectives that undo the dominant understanding of authoritarian violence and its effects, and reconfigure who or what is visible as subjects of memory and human rights in postdictatorship.

8

Introduction

The focus on specific sites of memory with varying degrees of institutionalization limits my project yet also offers an ideal space (both conceptual and material) to examine the relationship between aesthetics and politics in postdictatorial culture. My approach to the study of these cultural spaces is not focused on a monumentality centered on the mythical representation of a national past or traditional notions of collective memory articulated in classic works by such authors as Maurice Halbwachs and Pierre Nora.19 As Andreas Huyssen has argued, this static approach to collective memory is “not adequate to grasp the current dynamic of media and temporality, memory, lived time, and forgetting,”20 and the “clashing and ever more fragmented memory politics of specific social and ethnic groups raises the question whether forms of collective consensual memory are even still possible today.”21 Instead, following Huyssen, I view these cultural sites as “palimpsests of space, monuments as transformable and transitory  .  .  . memories of what was there before, imagined alternatives to what there is. The strong marks of present space merge in the imaginary with traces of the past, erasures, losses, and heterotopias.”22 This approach reflects the critical turn of the “counter-​memorial movement” of the mid-​1990s and early 2000s, in which, in the words of James E. Young, “events, their recollection, and the role monuments play in our lives remain animate, never completed.”23 In the Southern Cone, this conceptualization of memory spaces as contradictory sites where critical engagement with the dictatorial past can occur in varied social contexts of postdictatorship was particularly influential during the so-​called memory boom from the mid-​1990s to the early 2000s, when many institutional sites of memory were established. While the recuperation of physical locations where military personnel detained, tortured, and murdered thousands of people (such as the Espacio Memoria and the MDR) may create layers of meaning different from cultural spaces that are not located at former detention and torture centers (such as the MUME), we can conceive of these sites as producing dynamic marcas territoriales of memory in the sense described by Elizabeth Jelin and Victoria Langland: “Whether memory is inscribed in a specific place with a singular meaning or there are multiple levels of meaning for different publics . . . , neither approach negates the possibility of a more dynamic and mobile functioning of the territoriality of memory.”24 In this sense, these sites enter into dialogue with the larger cultural politics of memory at local, national, regional, and international levels. Here, as Hugo Achugar suggests,

Introduction

9

“the monument or historical site can also lack a materiality or physical location, it can be an intellectual space. . . . [I]t can be constituted by the scope of academic debate itself.”25 As such, my analysis of visual culture installed in these spaces enters into dialogue with postdictatorial cultural production produced outside these sites, including films, novels, performance art, music, and poetry. Yet the focus on these sites offers a particularly intriguing way to examine the relationship between politics and aesthetics that produces (and is produced by) the “territoriality of memory,” rooted in the tension between testimonial-​inflected permanent exhibits articulated in the register of “truth telling” and temporary aesthetic installations, which produce meanings that can exceed archival documentation of “truth.” Examining the conflictive processes of memory and meaning at these specific cultural sites thus provides a productive space to interrogate the notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture and to ask who or what is excluded from dominant interpretations of these concepts. However, I do not intend to “rescue” the excluded nonheroes and nonvictims of postdictatorial discourse and insert them into the dominant global rhetoric of human rights based on “the rights of those who have no rights, the rights of bare human beings . . . humanitarian rights, that is, the rights of those who cannot enact them, of victims whose rights are totally denied.”26 As Rancière contends, the recent ethical turn in critical theory has led to a depoliticization of the concept of victim and the transformation of human rights discourse into ethical humanitarianism, “an erasure of the political in the couple of consensual policy and humanitarian police.”27 As I argue in chapter 1, this notion is embodied in the discourse of nunca más/nunca mais, beginning with the texts of that name published in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay during the so-​called transition to democracy and repeated in the mission statements for the three cultural sites examined in this book. The dissonance between the rhetoric of never again presented in such sites as the Paseo and the continued use of state violence in these spaces against the most economically and socially excluded sections of the population demonstrates the need to problematize the ethical relationship between memory and human rights that dominates these issues in postdictatorship. As such, in Dissensual Subjects I seek to open a critical space for a nonethical engagement with postdictatorial culture that allows for moments of political subjectivation outside the parameters of liberal humanitarianism and the visible hero/victim of dictatorship.

10

Introduction

A Brief History of Postdictatorial Cultural Production and Criticism Postdictatorship studies in the Southern Cone is a vast field, covering multiple countries and diverse analytical approaches in varied academic disciplines. As such, it is impossible to provide a complete summary of critical engagement with cultural production in postdictatorship during the last thirty years. I provide here a brief overview, roughly divided into three periods, as a general guide to the dominant cultural and critical approaches to postdictatorship, while recognizing the divergent institutional and cultural practices in each country. I am cognizant of the fact that within each postdictatorial moment multiple modes of engagement with memory and human rights existed, and that each major turn was coeval with multiple minor cultural and analytical interventions that would come to the fore at other moments or remain in the background. The first period of postdictatorial cultural production began near the end of the dictatorships in the late 1970s and lasted until the early 1990s. As the military dictatorships officially came to a close in Argentina (1983), Brazil (1985), and Uruguay (1985), and each country began the process of “transition”28 to democratically elected governments, cultural production focused on denouncing the violence used by the military regimes and calling for juridical truth about the systematic detention, torture, and murder of political dissidents and those perceived as subversives by the state. The testimonial nature of cultural works from this period was an attempt to recuperate memory, contesting the official politics of forgetting and impunity for military personnel for acts of violence committed during the dictatorship. Each country passed laws during the transitions to democracy that utilized the rhetoric of national reconciliation to justify official policies that prevented legal action against military personnel, essentially silencing any attempt to revisit the dictatorial past through an institutionalized collective amnesia about the 1960s and 1970s.29 In the face of official policies of impunity and oblivion, cultural production in this period focused, with some notable exceptions, on testimonial memories that narrated experiences of censorship, imprisonment, torture, and murder under the military regimes.30 These works articulated testimonial memory narratives either through the rhetoric of an idealized militant resistance to the dictatorship or through the figure of innocent victim of the horrors of military violence. In Argentina, testimonial narratives about detention and torture, such as

Introduction

11

Jacobo Timerman’s Preso sin nombre, celda sin número (Prisoner without a Name, Cell without a Number) (1981) and Alicia Partnoy’s The Little School: Tales of Disappearance and Survival (1986), as well as the film La historia oficial (The Official Story) (1985), which detailed the practice of military officials abducting children born to political prisoners and giving them away to families who supported the regime, were quickly translated or dubbed into English and circulated through the international community. While not as well known internationally, similar testimonials about detention and torture written by political militants were published in this period in Brazil, such as Renato Tapajós’s Em câmera lenta (In slow motion, 1977), which did not gain much visibility in the country, and Fernando Gabeira’s O que é isso companheiro (What’s going on here, comrade?, 1979), which was extremely popular and later inspired a film (1997) that was widely distributed internationally. In Uruguay, testimonial narratives by former leaders of the militant group Movimiento Nacional de Liberación-​Tupamaros (National Liberation Movement-​ Tupamaros, MLN-​ T) began to emerge, such as Eleuterio Fernández Huidobro’s La historia de los Tupamaros (The history of the Tupamaros; 1986), La fuga de Punta Carretas (Escape from Punta Carretas; 1990), and Memorias del calabozo (Memories of the cell; 1987–­88), cowritten with fellow ex-​Tupamaro leader Mauricio Rosencoff. The goal of much cultural production during this first phase of postdictatorship was to attract international attention to the systemic repression of political dissidents and to legitimize the roles of former political prisoners and those returning from exile in building a democratic postdictatorial society. Studies of memory and human rights in this initial period31 largely reflect this focus on testimony, articulating memories in the face of official policies of forgetting, particularly given that many critics experienced imprisonment, torture, and exile during the dictatorship.32 While a primary purpose behind much of this cultural production was to provide an outlet for victims to work through their traumatic experiences of state violence, an ancillary goal was the pursuit of juridical justice for crimes committed by military personnel as critics attempted to keep these experiences in the public eye despite the official turn to forgetting and impunity. It is important to note the differences in the juridical realm with regards to the amnesty and impunity laws in each country, as this has influenced both the form and content of cultural production related to memory and human rights in the postdictatorship. While the laws protecting military personnel

12

Introduction

were eventually nullified by congress in Argentina (2003), allowing for the persecution of military personnel and ending the official policy of forgetting and impunity, both the 1979 Amnesty Law in Brazil (upheld in a 2010 supreme court decision) and the Ley de Caducidad (Expiry Law) in Uruguay (upheld in a 2013 supreme court decision) remain active. While not solely determining the focus of cultural production related to memory and human rights in each country, these institutional mechanisms influenced the output and reception of aesthetic works beginning in the second period of postdictatorship.33 As a result, a more critical engagement with the dictatorship has emerged in Argentina, while in Brazil and Uruguay work largely continues in the testimonial register of memory, truth, and justice. The second period of postdictatorship studies corresponds to what has been called the “memory boom” (e.g., Huyssen 2003; Jelin 2003) in the region between the early 1990s and early 2000s, a period that saw numerous novels, films, photography exhibits, and other works engaging the “recent past”—­an oft-​used euphemism for dictatorship in the region—­in ways that move beyond the purely testimonial tenor of the previous period. Examples include novels by Argentines Ricardo Piglia (La ciudad ausente [The Absent City], 1992) and Tununa Mercado (En estado de memoria [In a State of Memory], 1990); Alejandro Agresti’s film Buenos Aires viceversa (1996); Brazilian Lúcia Murat’s film Que bom te ver viva (How nice to see you alive) (1990) and Fernando Bonassi’s novel Prova contrária (Proof to the contrary) (2003); and novels by Uruguayan authors (and ex-​ Tupamaros) Mauricio Rosencoff (El Bataraz [The bataraz] 1991) and Hiber Conteris (Oscura memoria del Sur [Obscure memory of the south] 2002). There is also continued activism by organizations representing the families of the disappeared in all three countries, as they search for juridical truth and justice, the best-​known being the two splinter groups of the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo34 in Argentina. The children of the disappeared, such as H.I.J.O.S. in Argentina,35 also became more visible, engaging in performative acts of memory and protest (escraches) in public spaces near the private homes of military personnel accused of torture and murder under the dictatorships, calling attention to the continued impunity for these individuals. This postdictatorial moment also saw the establishment of memory spaces such as the Parque de la Memoria (Memory Park) in Buenos Aires and the Memorial en Recordación de los Detenidos Desaparecidos (Memorial in Remembrance of the Detained-​Disappeared) in Montevideo, and intensified debate surrounding the preservation of

Introduction

13

detention and torture centers, including at the Departamento Estadual de Ordem Política e Social (DEOPS) in São Paulo and the Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada (ESMA) in Buenos Aires, which have since been transformed into the MDR and EMDDHH. As this surfeit of cultural memory was produced, critical approaches to the study of postdictatorship changed to accompany the turn from testimony and the memory/forgetting dialectic. For example, the activism of the madres and hijxs triggered a theoretical turn toward performance and the body as ways to engage with notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorship, exemplified by the foundational work of Diana Taylor (1997, 2003). Two critical methodologies from this postdictatorial moment particularly influence my approach. First, the contributions of such authors as Elizabeth Jelin (2003), Hugo Vezzetti (2002), and in a different way, Beatriz Sarlo (2005),36 were especially important in establishing analytical frameworks for postdictatorial culture beyond the binary of memory/forgetting and accepted notions of victimhood, especially through intergenerational memory. This work focused on the interplay of collective and individual experiences during dictatorship and how the multigenerational interaction around these themes opened up a space for rethinking the production and circulation of memory in postdictatorial societies. Jelin notes that “the processes of expressing and making public the interpretations and meanings of those pasts are extremely dynamic, as these interpretations and meanings are never fixed once and for all.”37 She considers younger generations’ interactions with the past as essential to the dynamic nature of cultural memory because they are often more willing “to engage in a dialogue rather than simply represent that past through a direct identification with it,” which allows “reinterpretations, resignifications, and new readings of the past.”38 This is an essential component of any study of postdictatorial memory, as representations of a traumatic past through cultural production are interpreted and activated in different ways in varied social contexts. Hugo Vezzetti also notes the negotiated space of meaning of postdictatorial cultural memory between the past and the present, reaffirming that if memory of dictatorship is to be “the object of a battle for meanings of the past that remains current, active, in the present, it is important to consider its capacity to maintain an investigative relation, one that combines remembrance with intellection while looking toward a different future.”39 His argument is that memory does not solely entail the recuperation of facts about dictatorship through testimony nor a

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fixed construction of a past event, but rather continued critical inquiry into this past and its effects, so as to highlight the dynamic nature of memory and the many ways it is activated in the present. The notion that memory work, be it collective or individual (or a relation between them), is always an open and contested cultural practice in the present opens the possibility for the reinsertion of previously excluded remnants of the past to create trajectories other than those consecrated by the present consensus of postdictatorship. Echoing this notion of interrogating the ruins of the past, a second analytical perspective in critical cultural studies emerged from the Chilean context at this moment but soon became highly influential in the study of postdictatorship throughout the region. In dialogue with Walter Benjamin’s conceptualizations of catastrophe, allegory, mourning, and ruins, work by such authors as Nelly Richard (1994, 2000, 2004a, 2004b, 2007), Idelber Avelar (1999), and Alberto Moreiras (1999) made important contributions to the critical study of postdictatorship that move beyond the depoliticized conceptualization of victim as well as idealized notions of heroic political militancy in resistance to the dictatorship. As Richard explains, “The figures of trauma, mourning, and melancholy have become emblematic figures of a certain critical thinking about dictatorship (the coup as trauma, mourning as loss of an object, and melancholy as the unresolved suspension of mourning).”40 An important difference between this approach and testimonial narratives focused on the experiences of victims of detention, torture, murder, and exile was the Benjaminian-​inflected use of the terms trauma, mourning, and melancholy. This sought to move beyond both the juridical notion of justice and the purely psychoanalytical use of these terms by opening them up to the relationship between individual and collective (historical) traumatic memory. These authors equated the military golpe de estado (military coup) with Chilean philosopher Patricio Marchant’s notion of a golpe de representación—­a representational break that marks the impossibility of representing the ruins of the past without incorporating them within the discursive logic of postdictatorial society inaugurated by the dictatorship itself. These critics were guided by “the ethical imperative to protect the remains of the tragedy that fractured marks of existence and categories of thinking  .  .  . while avoiding a memory that seeks solace in comforting restitutions or substitutions.”41 At the same time, they sought to move beyond a purely melancholic engagement with the catastrophe of the past “by disassembling and reinventing the

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15

order of representations of this time period that seek to align voices and subjectivities in docile agreement with the serial modulations of the neoliberal present . . . so that the affected is also able to affect.”42 This is a permanent tension in the work of Richard, Avelar, and Moreiras (and others)43 at this postdictatorial moment, drawing both from Benjamin and the Lacanian aporia between the need to narrate a traumatic past and its impossibility, in the attempt to avoid incorporating remnant experiences from the dictatorship in the hegemonic language of the neoliberal present. The current moment of postdictatorial cultural production began in the early 2000s and consists of varied engagement with dictatorship and its effects. This includes works by writers, artists, photographers, and filmmakers who were either very young or not yet born in the 1970s, which Ana Ros refers to as the “postdictatorship generation.”44 Echoing Jelin’s argument about the capacity of younger generations to provoke a critical examination of dictatorship and its effects, there has been a renewed “memory boom” by children of the disappeared as well as others who were not directly affected by military violence but grew up in postdictatorial societies. Particularly visible in Argentina but present throughout the Southern Cone, these works often insert critical perspectives about the dominant rhetoric surrounding postdictatorial memory that are commonly reproached by both former supporters of the military regimes and former political militants and human rights organizations. Some examples include Argentine filmmaker Albertina Carri’s 2003 film Los rubios (The blonds); narratives by Argentine writers Laura Alcoba (Casa de conejos [The Rabbit House], 2008) and Mariana Eva Perez (Diario de una Princesa Montonera—­110% Verdad [Diary of a montonera princess—­110% truth], 2012); Brazilian writer Beatriz Bracher’s 2004 novel Não falei (I didn’t talk); and narratives by Uruguayan authors Gabriel Sosa (“Qué difícil es de ser de izquierda estos días” [“How hard it is to be a leftist these days”], 2004) and Natalia Mardero (“Los bolches” [The bolches], 2008).45 There has been a continued growth of the recuperation of sites of detention and torture during dictatorship and the installation of museums, monuments, and other cultural spaces dedicated to the memory of this period. The testimonial genre also continues, particularly in Brazil and Uruguay, where the laws protecting military personnel are still in force, but the increased dialogue among artists, writers, activists, and academics throughout the Southern Cone has also opened up a more critical approach to memory narratives in postdictatorial culture.

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Introduction

Much recent academic work produced in postdictatorial cultural studies engages with previous debates on memory, human rights, and culture in the region while attempting to think through these issues in alternative ways or explore aspects of postdictatorial culture that continue to be marginalized. This includes detailed analyses of aesthetic interventions in spaces of cultural memory, new studies of cultural production by the postdictatorship generation, reinterpretation of previously studied novels and films using an alternative critical approach, or examination of works that were ignored or garnered little critical attention upon their appearance. Contributions by Lazarra (2006), Crenzel (2008), Bilbija and Payne (2011), Andermann (2012a, 2012b), Draper (2012), Ginzburg (2012), Ros (2012), Villalobos-​ Ruminott (2013), Atencio (2014), Bell (2014), Blanco (2015), and Rosenberg (2016), among others, examine postdictatorial culture in the Southern Cone through varied interpretations of such themes as ethics, aesthetics, trauma, rights, politics, transitional justice, freedom, space, democracy, sovereignty, and subjectivity. I dialogue with many of these critics throughout this book while examining an underexplored area: critical evaluation of the relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorship, particularly as articulated through the notion of never again in cultural spaces dedicated to these themes. Dissensual Subjects interrogates what I have called the (counter)hegemonic discursive logic of postdictatorial memory46—­the dominant ways of perceiving, discussing, and articulating social engagement with the dictatorial past. I examine how permanent cultural exhibits installed at institutionalized cultural sites of memory serve to reproduce narratives that are already highly visible in postdictatorial discourse, articulated either through notions of heroic militant resistance or humanitarian justice for the unrepresentable victims of military violence. I problematize what I call the “ethical fusion” of the concepts of memory and human rights in the mission statements and permanent displays of these sites through the rhetoric of nunca más/mais, which, I contend, is a notion founded upon the constitutive exclusion of nonheroes and nonvictims from the liberal, humanitarian discourse of rights. This does not negate the importance of critical approaches that explore the trauma and loss experienced by victims of the military dictatorships in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay, nor the continued search for juridical truth and justice for those detained, tortured, and murdered during this time. The physical and mental violence suffered by thousands of people during the dictatorships, the traumatic effects of these human rights

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violations for both the victims and their families, and the continued impunity for many military personnel in the present, are real, indisputable experiences that have affected generations of people across the political spectrum and national boundaries. However, I do seek to problematize how dominant notions of memory and human rights always already determine who or what counts as subjects of these categories in both the past and the present. As Gareth Williams suggests, to trace those subjects excluded from or appropriated within (counter)hegemonic logic we must expose ourselves “to the haunting promise of hegemony’s and counter-​hegemony’s other side . . . where the horizon for interruptive (non-​or posthegemonic) cultural, social, and theoretical narratives—­indeed, the constitutive potentiality of the future itself—­always resides.”47 In Dissensual Subjects, I use the terms nonvictims and nonheroes to indicate the constitutive “other side” of (counter) hegemonic postdictatorial discourse in the Southern Cone, the nonsubjects of never again. While we could provisionally offer examples of what I am calling nonvictims or nonheroes (e.g., homeless, poor, immigrants, common prisoners, nonmilitants, children of military personnel, working-​class soldiers, and gendered, racial, or sexual minorities), the point is not to incorporate these subjects into the rhetoric of nunca más/ mais founded upon the transition installed by the military regimes. The purpose is instead to interrogate the very concept of never again, opening the space for any anonymous subject to appear as political in the Rancierean sense—­as an intervention into “common sense” that makes visible experiences and interpretations of human rights and memory that move beyond the liberal humanitarian subject. We can consider these nonsubjects of nunca más/mais a “negative community,” as conceived by Williams, “a potential condition of possibility for new constitutive relations between institutionalized thought, theoretical reflection, and the subaltern/posthegemonic specters of the neoliberal social order.”48

The Subjects of Human Rights, Politics, and Aesthetics Through close examination of photography exhibits, audiovisual installations, and other plastic art forms in the cultural spaces cited above, I explore how temporary aesthetic interventions in institutional cultural spaces can open up the visibility of nonsubjects of nunca más/mais and provide alternative ways of conceptualizing memory, human rights, and political subjectivation in postdictatorship. The theoretical framework

18

Introduction

that guides my study of these themes involves critical approaches that move beyond identitarian categories, ethical humanitarianism, and the discourse of nation in thinking through the issues of memory and human rights in non-​or trans-​disciplinary ways. This nonidentitarian engagement with political subjectivation is not meant to undo academic and activist work focused on race, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, citizenship, nation, and so on, but rather to extract these contributions from a politics of inclusion that appropriates any given excluded subject into the consensus of neoliberal hegemony. This is particularly important when considering the dominant global human rights discourse, which, as Wendy Hesford contends (citing Nancy Fraser), has predominately consisted of a “cultural politics of recognition—­ an identity-​ based politics of visibility  .  .  . that directed public attention away from the regressive politics and growth of global capitalism.”49 In “Who Is the Subject of the Rights of Man?” Jacques Rancière offers an important critique of the dominant understanding of human rights subjectivity today and calls for a reconfiguration of notions of the political and the heterogeneous processes of subjectivation of rights through the always contingent concept of dissensus. Rancière contends that today’s consensual interpretation of human rights (humanitarianism) refers to “the rights of the rightless . . . the rights of victims, the rights of those unable to exercise their rights or even to claim them in their own name, so that eventually their rights had to be upheld by others.”50 For Rancière, the theoretical base for this depoliticized notion of rights can be traced to Hannah Arendt’s conceptualization of human rights as “the paradoxical rights of the private, poor, de-​politicized individual.”51 He views Arendt’s depoliticizing gesture as foundational to the ethical notion of human rights subjectivity at the center of today’s liberal discourse of humanitarianism, theoretically sustained through Giorgio Agamben’s conceptualization of biopolitics. Rancière argues that within Agamben’s notions of “bare life” and “state of exception,” any attempt to claim or enact rights is always already contained in an ontological trap of biopolitics that negates political subjectivation through “the radical suspension of politics in the exception of bare life.”52 This effectively “de-​populates the political stage by sweeping aside its always ambiguous actors.  .  .  . So politics gets equated with power and power itself gets increasingly construed as an overwhelming historico-​ontological destiny from which only God can save us.”53 This “attempt to preserve the political from contamination by the private, the social or a-​ political life,”54 articulated by Arendt and

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Agamben, thus negates the heterogeneous and contingent nature of what constitutes the political. This contrasts sharply with Rancière’s conceptualization of the political subjects of human rights as those with “a capacity for staging scenes of dissensus.”55 For Rancière, political subjectivity consists in “the dismissal of categories of those who are or are not qualified for political life. The very difference between man and citizen is not a sign of disjunction. . . . It is the opening of an interval for political subjectivation.”56 He argues that the strength of the notion of human rights lies in the disjunction between (private) man and (political) citizen that Arendt finds problematic, because this abstraction as to who or what qualifies as the subject of rights allows for “the back-​and-​forth movement between the initial inscription of the right and the dissensual stage on which it is put to the test.”57 For Rancière, political subjects “are not definite collectivities, but surplus names that set out a question or a dispute about who is included in their count. . . . Political predicates are open predicates: they open up a dispute about what they entail, whom they concern and in which cases.”58 This heterogeneous, contingent notion of political subjectivity is key to a critical reconsideration of the concept of human rights—­ who is able to claim and enact these rights as political subjects and how dominant perceptions and understandings of human rights are distributed through social discourse. The depoliticizing gesture in human rights subjectivity through a humanitarianism where rightless victims need to be saved reflects the so-​called ethical turn in critical theory that Rancière (among others) critiques. Yet Rancière makes a crucial connection to the way this ethical turn appears not only in politics and the conceptualization of human rights but also in the realm of aesthetics, which “no longer links art’s specificity to a future emancipation, but instead to an immemorial and never-​ending catastrophe.”59 At the heart of this ethical turn is the notion of time cut in two by a radical event, not a future moment of emancipation but rather the perpetual mourning of the impossibility of fully representing the catastrophe of the past. Thus, much of what used to be identified as critical art no longer points toward the possibility of a coming event that would inaugurate social justice, but instead is always already turned backward toward the trauma of the past, “art’s answer to which is to put up a ‘resistance’ that is nothing but the endless work of mourning.”60 In this way, the emancipatory thinking toward the future that was initially at the heart of the concepts of politics and aesthetics in critical theory has been transformed into “the reduction of art to the

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Introduction

ethical witnessing of unrepresentable catastrophe”61 or notions of politics that serve as a “legitimization of the necessities of the consensual order.”62 This critique of the ethical turn in both politics and aesthetics is essential to my examination of the relationship between memory and human rights in the postdictatorial Southern Cone and my argument for a critical engagement with these themes that moves beyond the trauma of dictatorship. The golpe (in both its material and symbolic forms) has lodged itself as the catastrophic event to which all cultural, philosophical, aesthetic, and political production must bear witness to count in dominant discourses of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. As noted above, the notions of ruins, mourning, and the catastrophe of dictatorship emerged in the critical contributions of such authors as Nelly Richard, Idelber Avelar, and Alberto Moreiras in the second postdictatorial moment. However, despite the intention of these authors to insert the remnants of dictatorship in the present and disrupt the dominant ways of representing the past established by the military regimes, there has been a tendency to focus solely on the victims of dictatorship in the key of ethical humanitarianism, without making critical interventions into the present neoliberal order. In fact, the notion of bearing witness to the violence experienced by political dissidents under military dictatorships has been appropriated in the social and economic order of postdictatorship. It forms part of the “memory market” of postdictatorial culture as described by Ksenija Bilbija and Leigh A. Payne—­where, contrary to the common argument that the commodification of memory leads to oblivion, “the profit of the memory market is, therefore, the notion of ‘Never Again.’ It is not the belief that the memory will necessarily fade or disappear, but rather that it should be remembered to prevent future atrocities.”63 This humanitarian discourse, turned toward the “past catastrophe” of dictatorship, ultimately closes the intervals of political subjectivation where uncounted subjects of human rights and memory can articulate unqualified notions of victim, injustice, and inequality in postdictatorship. In Dissensual Subjects, I seek to recuperate a space of political subjectivation in postdictatorship studies in ways that move beyond the ethical demand of liberal humanitarianism embodied in the notion of never again. In Latin American Studies, key contributions by Alberto Moreiras (2007) and Bruno Bosteels (2012) have recently interrogated the ethical turn in critical theory in ways that inform my approach, albeit from different perspectives. Moreiras suggests the notion of

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infrapolitical ethics as a way to “encounter and critique the moralistic residue in contemporary philosophical positions whose appeal to weak definitions of the ethical seem to empower them to occupy some kind of self-​assigned high ground.”64 He conceives of infrapolitical ethics as a “supplement” to what he views as the ontological use of ethics in both Agamben’s biopolitical project and Alain Badiou’s notion of an ethics without others. Moreiras suggests that infrapolitical ethics “may constitute something like a subalternist ethics, they reject the notion of an ethics without others as well as every possible notion of an ethics of mere life . . . notions [that] conceal a misguided moralism of ontotheological origin—­regardless of their good intentions, or precisely because of them.”65 This concept of the infrapolitical builds upon Moreiras’s understanding of the subaltern as “the cultural or experiential formations that are excluded from any given hegemonic relation at any particular moment of its history.”66 Here, Moreiras critiques the use of “ethics” in both Agamben and Badiou as an erasure of political subjectivation, a counterhegemonic notion of the biopolitical where “no politics are possible  .  .  . other than a politics of the increase of power, where the very encounter with power of the other as ethico­ political encounter can only be understood as an encounter with the power of bad biopolitical power—­which needs to be resisted, somehow overcome.”67 Moreiras then inserts the idea of infrapolitical ethics in the relationship between politics and aesthetics68 as a way to trace nonhegemonic subjects (what he has called el no sujeto de lo político [the nonsubject of the political])69 that reorient dominant notions of ethics beyond both Agamben’s biopolitical victimhood and what he sees as the totalizing figure of Badiou’s notion of event. “Infrapolitics is in sum the ethical charge of the literary apparatus, and the cipher of its heteronomy. In literary infrapolitics—­in the not properly political but improperly ethical and improperly political—­we find the link between literature and democracy, understood as the movement toward the end of the sacrificial structuration of history.”70 Here we can draw a direct correlation between Moreiras’s notion of infrapolitics and Rancière’s conceptualization of dissensus, as both seek to undo the ethical erasure of politics and aesthetics. Moreiras does so by engaging the negative articulation of both ethics and politics through aesthetic production—­ the relationship between the “improperly ethical” and the “improperly political”—­to trace an infrapolitical intervention into accepted notions of both ethics and politics. Rancière destabilizes the present ethical

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Introduction

demand by articulating the relation between the inventions of politics and aesthetics as an always contingent disruption of the distribution of the sensible related to any given discourse. Both seek to avoid the ontological traps of counterhegemony, messianism, and a substantiated “other” while maintaining the heterogeneous possibilities of political subjectivity to continually test and reorient consensual understanding of equality in a nonhegemonic manner. Bruno Bosteels also engages the recent ethical turn in critical theory, but he focuses his critique on the philosophical notion of “finitude as enacted in and through language and in the face of the Other,”71 which he contends is the primary way that “the ethical turn has become part of literary and cultural studies, as well as much of critical theory today, including in Latin America.”72 Bosteels critiques critical approaches that “in the name of an ethics of the Other, have come preemptively to cancel any attempt to overcome [the] misery and destitution of the others through a political act of liberation.”73 To undo this, he calls for a return to the concept of ethics articulated by Argentine philosopher León Rozitchner, an ethics inextricably tied to the political act as opposed to placing politics under erasure. For Rozitchner, “Ethics is only another name for the inseparability of subject and object, that is, the commitment to think from within the situation in which actions take place.”74 In this sense, no theoretical or philosophical system “can claim to have the power of authority over the immanent potentiality of a given situation; instead an ethics of knowledge comes to be tied internally to the thoughts and affects with which the situation is rife.”75 In dialogue with Rozitchner, Badiou, and Rancière, Bosteels suggests that a “liberation from ethics”76 is needed, both within critical theory and in our analytical practices related to cultural production, arguing for a conceptualization of subjectivity beyond the humanitarian notions of victims and injustice. While Moreiras and Rancière perceive a closed, ontological nature in Badiou’s concept of event, Bosteels highlights Badiou’s dismissal of the logic of victimization and critique of an ethics focused on fidelity to the Other. For Badiou, this is ultimately “a nihilistic framework that reduces humans to the role of suffering animals always portrayed as victims”77 and thus negates any acts of political subjectivation other than that condoned by neoliberal consensus. Here, Bosteels reminds us that Badiou’s concept of the event occurs at “the site of the least protected, the most unsheltered, and usually the most harshly victimized part of a given situation.”78 He then reiterates the importance of thinking beyond the ethical demand

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of the victim as a way to recuperate the political, drawing from Badiou and paralleling Rancière’s argument: “The point is that oppression and victimization . . . should not be turned into irrefutable reference points of an ethical responsibility that can then be invoked against any and all political effort to right the original wrong. This would keep the site from ever becoming that of an actual event. But this is precisely the operation that, for Badiou, hides behind the self-​described radicalism of the ethical turn.”79 Here we clearly note affinities with Rancière’s argument that the ethical turn places under erasure any possibility of subjectivation via political or aesthetic interventions, which are invoked only to bear witness to the impossibility of human beings emancipating ourselves from the endless misery of victimhood and injustice. In this sense, both Moreiras’s conceptualization of “infrapolitical ethics” and Bosteels’s call for a “liberation from ethics” can be viewed as critiques, similar to Rancière’s, of the ethical couple of politics and aesthetics. While Moreiras’s attempt is articulated in a deconstructive key that hints at a possible “subalternist ethics” for the “supplement” that is always already excluded from (counter)hegemonic notions of biopolitical power, Bosteels seeks to think beyond the philosophical concept of finitude through a focus on the “immanence of action and thought” and the event via Rozitchner and Badiou. Importantly, like Rancière and Moreiras, Bosteels also considers aesthetic interventions as potential sites for politics: “Art and literature—­the novel, poetry, theater, film—­no less than the militant tract or the theoretical treatise, provide symptomatic sites for the investigation of such processes of subjectivization.”80 Despite the recent polemic surrounding their different approaches,81 which I do not intend to resolve here, I suggest that both Moreiras and Bosteels are ultimately seeking to undo the ethical turn that has dominated both critical theory and cultural studies in recent years. Both of these intellectual projects help us to problematize the linkage of memory and human rights in the postdictatorial Southern Cone via notions of ethical humanitarianism, particularly with regard to the processes of political subjectivation at cultural sites dedicated to these themes.

The Productive Tension between Politics and Aesthetics The tenuous relationship between politics and aesthetics is a central concern of Dissensual Subjects, as the institutionalized cultural centers

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Introduction

that I examine in the following chapters are key sites where art and memory practices interact to produce political subjectivities in postdictatorship. I conceive of these sites not as monuments to the disappeared or memorials to the catastrophe of dictatorship, but as dissensual sites of subjectivation via the tensions between politics and aesthetics. My approach to the study of the permanent exhibits and temporary installations at these centers is largely informed by Rancière’s thinking on the relationship between art and politics, which he defines via the concept of dissensus: “Art and politics each define a form of dissensus, a dissensual re-​configuration of the common experience of the sensible. If there is such a thing as an ‘aesthetics of politics,’ it lies in a re-​configuration of the distribution of the common through political processes of subjectivation. Correspondingly, if there is a ‘politics of aesthetics,’ it lies in the practices and modes of visibility of art that re-​configure the fabric of sensory experience.”82 By connecting the categories of art and politics through the notion of dissensus, Rancière avoids any ontological definition of politics or art or their relationship. He contends that both art and politics are inventions “that could just as well not have existed,”83 and as such, he calls for a critical framework exploring their contingent relationship in specific social and historical contexts. All art, even so-​called apolitical art, performs specific notions of the political, just as politics always already incorporates an aesthetics, and this relationship hinges upon political subjectivation, which is always an open process where surplus names contest who or what is included in the distribution of the sensible related to any given topic—­ and what this inclusion does and does not mean. While politics and aesthetics share the capacity to interrupt the consensual social order through the appearance of “uncounted” subjects, a paradoxical tension exists between them within the “multiplicity of folds in the sensory fabric of the common . . . in which the topography of what is ‘in’ and what is ‘out’ are continually criss-​crossed and displaced by the aesthetics of politics and the politics of aesthetics.”84 In other words, there is no predetermined relation between art and politics, but only heterogeneous moments of convergence where political subjectivation occurs in new frameworks of the visible and sayable, where aesthetics meets politics as both intervene in the consensual world. This echoes the approach of Nelly Richard,85 who contends that we must “reject the binary of a simple opposition between, on one hand, self-​referential art, and, on the other, socially-​engaged art, in other

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words, between the politics of the signified and the poetics of the signifier.”86 In this way, Richard maintains that the political in art rejects the given relationship “between form and content to interrogate, rather, the operations of signs and the techniques of representation that mediate between the artistic and the social.”87 Néstor García Canclini has recently made a similar argument, suggesting that “this unpredictability of effects, corresponds . . . to the status of imminence in the works or artistic actions that cannot be grouped into political metanarratives or collective programs.”88 Instead, García Canclini traces “an open, unpredictable relation between the logic of redescribing the sensible on the part of the artists, the logic of communication in their works, and the several logics of appropriation by viewers; the point is to avoid a set correlation between the micropolitics of the creators and the constitution of political collectives.”89 For Rancière, “critical art” is a result not of the attempt to merge art and politics, but rather of “displacing art’s borders, just as doing politics means displacing the borders of what is acknowledged as the political. . . . They contribute to the constitution of a form of commonsense that is polemical, to a new landscape of the visible, the sayable and the doable.”90 Richard defines critical art as an aesthetic intervention that seeks to displace art’s borders, exceeding dominant notions of what is visible or sayable in a given context and aspiring to “unleash a revolt of the imagination that moves the meanings established by the official repertoires toward the limits of uncertainty and ambiguity of sense, whose experience of surprise makes the relation between gaze and image become always other to itself.”91 From a different conceptual perspective, García Canclini makes similar arguments through the notion of a postautonomous aesthetics (estética postautónoma) in recent visual culture production in Latin America. Keeping with his larger intellectual project, García Canclini applies these ideas beyond “art,” arguing that “the aesthetic actions that aim to change the references of what is visible and expressible—­that aim to get us to see what is hidden or get us to look at it in a different way” also occur “in the media, in urban renewal, in advertising, and in the framework of alternative politics.”92 These contributions by Rancière, Richard, and García Canclini guide my exploration of the ways aesthetic interventions related to memory and human rights can exceed the “truth-​telling” in documental and testimonial narratives and open up new frameworks of the conceivable and the visible in postdictatorial culture.

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Dissensual Subjects: Memory, Human Rights, and Postdictatorship The sheer heterogeneity in the relationship between so-​called political art and its interpretation by spectators is essential to the evaluation of the production, distribution, and effects of exhibits presented in cultural centers and museums dedicated to memory and human rights in the Southern Cone. These spaces, which inherently explore the relationship between politics and aesthetics, are key sites for examining notions of political subjectivity produced through the relationship between cultural memory and human rights discourse. Much like politics and aesthetics, I argue that memory and human rights have a paradoxical relationship, with moments of interaction where a certain memory politics interacts with a specific framing of the sensible related to human rights. In the tension between memory and human rights, often contradictory processes of political subjectivation can appear and serve as interventions into what is visible and sayable in postdictatorial discourse in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. Yet, much like the negation of the contingent relationship between politics and aesthetics by the recent ethical turn in critical theory, the tension between memory and human rights has entered into what I call an ethical fusion in much recent artistic and academic work in postdictatorial culture. Currently dominant conceptualizations of memory and human rights developed alongside the turn to ethical humanitarianism in global human rights discourse of the late 1970s,93 articulated through the notion of “never again” that arose at the end of the dictatorships in the Southern Cone. The rhetoric of nunca más/mais continues to guide engagement with these themes today, a trend that is particularly visible in the mission statements and permanent exhibits installed at cultural sites dedicated to memory and human rights in postdictatorship. The sites discussed here form part of what Susana Draper correctly identifies as the “global obsession with the idea of museification of past forms of state violence that has been transforming trauma into a hot commodity, while leaving unquestioned the violence occurring within the state-​global economy of time.”94 The subjects presented in the permanent exhibits in these spaces (both human actors and themes) are predominately articulated through the dual figures of resistant hero to or humanitarian victim of military regimes. This focus on the hero/ victim figure of the golpe of dictatorship as the material and metaphorical cipher for the trauma of the past is ultimately exclusionary

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of nonsubjects of never again, preventing a critical consideration of exactly who or what is included in such terms as victim, justice, or the political and how these concepts are perceived and distributed in postdictatorship. At the same time, present-​ day engagement with human rights through visual culture at these sites largely continues to be articulated using a humanitarian notion of ethics, or what Wendy Hesford calls the human rights spectacle—­“the incorporation of subjects (individuals, communities, nations) through imaging technologies and discourses of vision and violation into the normative frameworks of human rights internationalism based on United Nations (UN) documents and treaties. The human rights spectacle, therefore, refers not to individual images, iconic or otherwise, but to social and rhetorical processes of incorporation and recognition mediated by visual representation and the ocular epistemology that underwrites the discourse of human rights.”95 The visual presentation of heroic street protests, resistant revolutionaries and cultural figures, murdered and tortured victims of dictatorship, and innocent mothers and children suffering the effects of state violence that dominate the permanent exhibits of the EMPDDHH, MDR, and MUME all play into the human rights spectacle described by Hesford. Yet, as all three spaces engage with human rights issues in the present, it is also essential to consider the temporary art installations at these sites within the “visual economy of human rights.”96 This allows us to critically explore how both neoliberal politics and human rights politics use visual culture “to jointly incorporate victim subjects into social relations that support the logic of a global morality market that privileges Westerners as world citizens.”97 As such, I examine how aesthetic interventions in the spaces focused on contemporary human rights issues (i.e., poverty, inequality, racial or gendered systemic violence, etc.) participate in or disrupt the normative rhetoric of liberal humanitarianism that fits neatly within what Fernando J. Rosenberg calls the “triumph of global capital with human rights as its moral consciousness.”98 In chapter 1, “Nunca más/Nunca mais: The Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorial Culture,” I examine the foundational coupling of memory and human rights in the Nunca más/ Nunca mais texts published in the aftermath of the military dictatorships in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. Through close readings of the prefaces and introductions to these reports, I examine how each fused the concept of memory with a specific interpretation of human rights

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primarily founded upon an appeal to moral values articulated through a liberal conceptualization of civil/political rights. I argue that the constitutive exclusion of economic and social human rights in the Nunca más/Nunca mais texts founds the dominant discourse as to who or what counts as a subject of human rights and memory in postdictatorship. I then explore the acritical replication of this rhetoric in the present in the mission statements of the three cultural sites studied in this book, demonstrating the continued influence of the notion of “never again” on institutionalized discourse on memory and human rights in postdictatorship. I close the chapter by engaging with recent contributions that offer alternative ways to think through the notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture, and close with an argument for conceiving these concepts as dissensual subjects in the Rancierean sense. In chapters 2–­4, I examine the tension between politics and aesthetics in three institutionalized cultural centers dedicated to memory and human rights: the Memorial da Resistência in São Paulo, Brazil; the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria in Montevideo, Uruguay; and the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I examine the language and visual cues in the permanent exhibits and temporary art installations presented in each space to analyze how subjects of memory and human rights are produced and distributed through visual culture. The relationship between the permanent and temporary exhibits is key to my analysis of each cultural space, as the ephemeral interventions of art installations interrupt normalized notions of memory and human rights related to dictatorship that are presented in the institutional displays. This interaction, I argue, enables us to think beyond ethical notions of bearing witness to catastrophe or remembering the past so that human rights violations never happen again, which are predominately associated with these sites. Instead, I explore the contradictory relationships between politics and aesthetics on the one hand, and memory and human rights on the other, as concepts and as practice, which create the conditions of possibility for political subjectivation in postdictatorial culture beyond ethical humanitarianism. In the conclusion, I return to a discussion of the occupation of the Parque Indoamericano in connection with the ruins of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos, which remain in the park, considering it a nonplace of cultural memory where acts of political subjectivation by the nonsubjects of never again can be traced in the present. I reiterate my

Introduction

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argument for examining the paradoxical relationship between memory and human rights beyond the coupling of these concepts through the notion of nunca más/mais. I also call for academics and activists dedicated to social justice and human rights to explore alternative ways to connect memory politics and human rights activism in the present, beyond liberal humanitarianism, and I argue that aesthetic production is a privileged site for rethinking the political in postdictatorial culture. In sum, in Dissensual Subjects I seek to interrogate who or what is a subject of rights in postdictatorship; to problematize the depoliticizing ethical turn of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture; and to productively explore the heterogeneous relationship between politics and art to trace previously invisible processes of political subjectivation in contemporary social discourse. I argue that by considering the concepts of memory and human rights and their relationship as dissensual and contingent, resisting both a mournful witnessing of catastrophe and a biopolitical state of exception from which there is no escape without a messianic intervention, we can explore new ways to conceive of postdictatorial culture beyond the specter of horror and the notion of never again. This creates the space to trace elided notions of political subjectivity in postdictatorship, those nonvictimized and nonheroic experiences that are always already excluded from (or appropriated within) the concept of nunca más/mais.

Chapter 1

Nunca más/Nunca mais The Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorial Culture

¡Nunca más! Nunca mais! Never again! This iconic phrase, which originally gained prominence in the aftermath of the Holocaust1 and echoes publications of the same name in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay following the military dictatorships responsible for the detention, torture, and murder, of thousands of people from the 1960s to the 1980s, is foundational to the conceptual link between memory and human rights in postdictatorship. The publication of the Nunca más/Nunca mais texts at different moments and by different groups in each country aimed to uncover and distribute juridical facts about the atrocities committed by the military regimes, often in clandestine detention and torture centers, in response to official polices of “forgetting” and amnesty that guided the so-​called democratic transitions—­remembering the past so that these human rights violations “never happen again.” The texts also established the conceptual coupling of memory and human rights in the postdictatorial Southern Cone, an often idealized relationship that continues to be articulated thirty years later in institutional cultural spaces dedicated to these themes. Postdictatorial invocation of nunca más/mais presents memory and human rights as coextensive, suggesting that bearing witness to the traumas and effects of dictatorship results in the strengthening of human rights practices in the present. However, the relationship between memory and human rights needs to be reexamined, as the rhetoric of nunca más/mais often produces an ethical fusion of these categories that forecloses who or what is visible as political subjects in postdictatorial culture. I now turn to an examination of the prefaces and introductions to the three well-​ known reports documenting human rights violations 31

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committed during the military dictatorships: the Informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas (CONADEP) Nunca Más (Report of the National Commission of the Disappearance of Persons [CONADEP] Never again, 1984), Brasil: Nunca mais (Brazil: Never again, 1985), and Uruguay Nunca más (Uruguay: Never again, 1989). The introductory material provides a framing—­a distribution of the sensible—­for the juridical facts in the reports that is primarily founded upon a discourse of ethical humanitarianism. This ultimately produces a very specific interpretation of the relationship between human rights and memory, articulated through the dual figures of the apolitical victim of dictatorial violence and the heroic militant resisting oppression, which establishes social norms as to how these subjects are to be perceived and distributed in postdictatorship. Through a close reading of the way the Nunca más/Nunca mais reports are framed, we can tease out how the foundational discourse of nunca más/mais fuses a liberal conceptualization of human rights with the practices of cultural memory in postdictatorship, producing a closed interpretation of what constitutes the political that excludes nonvictimized and nonheroic subjects in both the past and the present. In examining the subjects of human rights and memory presented in these three texts, it’s important to recognize the contexts in which these books appeared. Both the Argentine (1984) and Brazilian (1985) texts were published during government transitions from military dictatorships to indirect political democracies that established a consensus surrounding the economic and social projects developed during the military regimes. The Uruguay Nunca más (1989) report was published later than its counterparts in Argentina and Brazil, which leads to some important differences in the language used to describe the relationship between memory and human rights. In this postdictatorial moment,2 debates on issues of amnesty, impunity, justice, and official memory and forgetting were at the center of public discourse, particularly as thousands of people who had been exiled during the dictatorships began to return to their countries to participate in the construction of a democratic society. As such, we can observe many similarities in the social contexts in this period, particularly in the way members of political organizations connected with the militant Left began to change the portrayal of their resistance during the dictatorship from a discourse of social revolution to a rhetoric of international human rights and democracy. As Vania Markarian suggests, this narrative transition was initially a pragmatic choice to generate international pressure to end the military

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regimes, as “the success of their denunciations depended on keeping radical claims for social change separated from their human rights activism . . . their ‘heroes’ of class struggle and revolution appeared as mere ‘victims’ of repression in the dossiers prepared for the US government, the UN, and the OAS.”3 Yet this strategy gradually turned into a dominant platform based on liberal notions of human rights subjectivity, aligned with such global NGOs as Amnesty International in “a humanitarian rhetoric almost bereft of calls for radical social change.”4 The global outcry against the use of torture in response to the dictatorships in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay was focused on those “educated, middle-​class militants [who] thought of themselves as possessors of both constitutionally and internationally protected rights,”5 and as such, they were visible as subjects of human rights both in their own countries and in the international discourse of humanitarian rights in the face of horror. In other words, the ethical appeal to bear witness to the victims of human rights abuse by the dictatorial regimes served to depoliticize the lives of those who were tortured, killed, or “disappeared” during dictatorship and establish the notion of the innocent victim of state violence. Emilio Crenzel offers a similar analysis of the turn to a discourse of international human rights in the Argentine case, noting that the “revolutionary tone that had been used to denounce political repression and disappearances before the 1976 coup was gradually replaced by a humanitarian narrative that stemmed from a moral imperative and appealed to a feeling of empathy with those persecuted.”6 Crenzel rightly identifies such a narrative transition throughout the Southern Cone at this time, as “political dynamics were increasingly seen as a confrontation between victims and victimizers, displacing the Marxist class-​struggle approach or the populist people-​oligarchy antinomy that had prevailed among radical activists prior to the coup.”7 This is echoed in the Brazilian case by such authors as historian Daniel Aaron Reis Filho, a former militant who demonstrates how in the struggle for amnesty in Brazil, “the revolutionary project transmuted into a democratic resistance against the dictatorship. . . . The revolutionary organizations . . . were remade into the extreme wing of the democratic resistance.”8 In this sense, the pragmatic decision to ally with international human rights organizations in order for political militants to gain visibility and legitimacy in the government transitions ultimately had the effect of abandoning the goal of radical social change in favor of a depoliticized “victim” figure whose civil and political human rights had

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been violently destroyed by military regimes. As Luis Martín-​Cabrera suggests, “Human rights politics were a perfect vehicle to depoliticize state violence in the Southern Cone. . . . By reducing these militants to their victim status—­ ‘mere life’ without political agency—­ human rights effectively dissociate suffering from its political and economic motivations.”9 The counterpart to this depoliticized subject was the attempt to recuperate the political militancy of those who had been imprisoned, tortured, and killed during the dictatorship, commonly articulated through narratives of heroic resistance to the military regime in the name of democracy and human rights in what I have called the second postdictatorial moment. This is evident in the multitude of testimonials, novels, films, and other cultural production that offer what Nelly Richard has called an “epic of resistance”10—­a highly idealized and celebratory narrative of challenges to the military regimes by armed militant groups, student movements, labor unions, and political parties. Yet, as Crenzel points out, the narrative of resistance in Argentina generally echoes the transition from a discourse of social revolution focused on economic and social rights to the language of civil/political rights associated with liberal humanitarianism: “When echoes of the radicalized discourse of the past could still be heard, the portrayal of the disappeared as ‘martyrs’ was associated with their ‘struggle for democracy,’ not with their commitment to the revolution.”11 In Uruguay, Markarian agrees that the political turn was ultimately articulated in the rhetoric of fighting the dictatorship in the name of democracy: “In the new heroic language . . . the higher goal deserving total devotion was not so much revolution and socialist change, but to recover democracy and defend the civil and political rights repressed by the regime.”12 This turn to “democratic resistance” was essential in the Brazilian context as well, where, as Marcelo Ridenti has argued, “the struggle of the armed lefts would only be legitimate if considered as a part of the democratic resistance to the dictatorship.”13 Thus, despite the attempt to “repoliticize” those on the left who physically or mentally suffered from state violence, the political acts of these individuals are commonly placed in service of the creation of heroic narratives of resistance to dictatorship. In this vein, Nelly Richard and Idelber Avelar have argued that testimonial countermemories often construct a nostalgic “anti-​dictatorial Symbol”14 through “victimized or heroic”15 narratives of political militants fighting repression that ultimately participate in the same discursive structure of

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postdictatorship consecrated by the military regimes.16 This creates a situation where the attempt to recuperate the memory of the acts of political militants during the dictatorship through idealized notions of victimized or heroic resistance actually produce more oblivion, as “a whole realm of experience was obliterated once the same victimized or heroic strategies—­the two are not incompatible at all, as we have seen they actual complement each other quite well—­were summoned to narrate facts that the current doxa is eager to forget.”17 In creating a totalizing narrative of resistance, testimonial cultural production often participated in “the same linear duality of Manichean construction of meaning”18 as the military and, in doing so, accepted the dominant discursive regime for talking about the dictatorship. In this way, the dual figure of victim/hero ultimately protected “the order and composition of meanings negotiated—­and granted—­by the regime’s official version during the democratic transition, safeguarding the hierarchy of certain overarching referents that remained fully intact, without a verbal trace of alteration or deterioration.”19 In this sense, the figures of apolitical victim and heroic political militant commonly at the center of the ethical coupling of memory and human rights in postdictatorship are ultimately one and the same. The focus is on the experiences of those who count as victims/heroes in relation to dictatorship, serving as symbols of either the catastrophe of humanity or resistance to the golpe in the name of consensual notions of democracy and human rights. This further displaces the marginalized subjectivities of economic and social rights in whose name these militants acted by emphasizing the latter’s status as subjects of human rights in postdictatorship. This logic of transition, articulated through the discourse of liberal humanitarianism, is the guiding force for the Nunca más/Nunca mais reports denouncing the human rights violations committed by the military regimes. Yet this turn to individual civil and political rights also enabled their appropriation by the military regimes and their supporters, who were happy to rhetorically “embrace the new global human rights norm,”20 which eschewed socialist views of human rights, eliminated the political from social discourse, and solidified the neoliberal social and economic policies established by the dictatorships in each country.21 This parallels Avelar’s contention that “ ‘transition to democracy’ meant nothing but the juridical-​electoral legitimation of the successful transition carried out under the military, the ultimate equation between political freedom for people and economic freedom for capital.”22

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Prior to engaging in a close reading of the three Nunca más/Nunca mais texts, it is important to note the conceptualizations of human rights included in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), the 1948 text referenced by all three reports and often referred to in public, academic, and artistic interventions on human rights in postdictatorial culture. The UDHR focuses on two types of human rights, those articulated in a liberal language focused on civil and political rights and those presented in a nonliberal discourse of economic and social rights. The civil and political rights presented in the first part of the UDHR are “universally” recognized as human rights today: “All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights” (Article 1); “Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person” (Article 3); “No one shall be held in slavery or servitude” (Article 4); and “No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment” (Article 5).23 Yet the UDHR also included social entitlements, incorporating a socialist view of rights that included “the right to social security and . . . the economic, social and cultural rights indispensable for his dignity” (Article 22); “the right to work  .  .  . to protection against unemployment . . . the right to equal pay for equal work . . . and to join trade unions” (Article 23); “the right to rest and leisure” (Article 24); and “the right to [free and compulsory] education” (Article 26).24 These two approaches were officially separated in 1966 into a pair of legal covenants: the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights, both of which went into effect in 1976. As Samuel Moyn argues, contemporary interpretations of the concept and practice of human rights accompanied this split and the turn to global humanitarianism in the late 1970s, rather than being the result of a centuries-​long trajectory of rights grounded in religious values, the philosophy of antiquity, the French Revolution, or the horrors of the Holocaust. As Moyn puts it, rather than “turning to history to monumentalize human rights by rooting them deep in the past, it is much better to acknowledge how recent and contingent they are.”25 Moyn contends that the turn to human rights as “the last utopia” corresponds to the failure of other “state based and internationalist” utopias of (Western) modernity in the late 1960s (e.g., decolonization, socialism, etc.), which “promised a free way of life, but led into bloody morass, or offered emancipation from empire and capital, but suddenly came to seem like dark tragedies rather than bright hopes.”26 It is for this reason that in the 1970s, “an internationalism revolving around

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individual rights surged, and it did so because it was defined as a pure alternative in an age of ideological betrayal and political collapse.”27 Moyn’s dismantling of teleological notions of human rights is an essential starting point to critically examine the relationship between the concepts of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture in the Southern Cone. Citing the work of Markarian, Moyn notes the turn to the liberal discourse of civil and political human rights for those engaged in radical politics in Latin America at this moment, vacating the Marxist-​inflected notions of economic and social rights included in the UDHR to pursue human rights for “victims of Latin American authoritarianism, not those in miserable circumstances in general.”28 The transition from a revolutionary discourse of human rights to one based in liberal humanitarianism is inscribed in the Nunca más/ Nunca mais texts, paralleling the consensual “transition” to indirect forms of democratic government and neoliberal economic policies in these countries. While the Brazilian and Uruguayan versions touch upon economic and social rights (more so than the Argentine text), I concur with Aldo Marchesi that “when the texts refer to the concept of the violation of human rights, they exclusively mention some civil and political rights.”29 This is the foundation for dominant notions of human rights in postdictatorial culture, which focus on the civil/ political rights of those who suffered from state violence while placing economic and social rights under erasure in the ethical task of bearing witness to heroic or victimized subjects under dictatorship. We can observe this turn through a close reading of the prologues and introductions of the three reports, as we examine the discursive mechanisms that each establishes as the “appropriate” way to conceive of the relationship between memory and human rights and the subjects that are visible in postdictatorship studies.30

Nunca más/mais and the Subjective Turn to Liberal Humanitarianism The first iteration of the Nunca más/Nunca mais texts is the best known: the 1984 publication of Argentina’s state-​sponsored Informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas [CONADEP]: Nunca más (Argentina Nunca más or ANM henceforth). Headed by the author Ernesto Sabato, the stated goal of CONADEP was not to pursue justice for the victims of state violence, but rather to “investigate

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the fate of the people who disappeared during those ill-​omened years of our nation’s life.”31 Much critical attention has been paid to the ways the prologue32 of this text lays the foundation for the so-​called dos demonios theory, the notion that civil society in 1970s Argentina was a victim of “terror from both the extreme right and the far left.”33 While this is intimated in the opening lines of the report, the rest of the prologue offers a strong indictment of atrocities committed by the military dictatorship that went beyond the official justification of combating armed militants, describing a “demented generalized repression” where “the word ‘subversive’ itself came to be used with a vast and vague range of meaning.”34 The prologue also maintains that despite the military’s justification that they were using violence only against subversive threats to the state, the “vast majority of [victims] were innocent not only of any acts of terrorism, but even of belonging to the fighting units of the guerrilla organizations.”35 This notion of innocence served to occlude the motivations and actions of those who were imprisoned, tortured, or killed by the military, choosing instead describe them as “defenseless, many of them adolescents”36 and thereby creating a figure of depoliticized victim in the discourse of global humanitarianism. The prologue also establishes the “disappeared” as the dominant subject of human rights in postdictatorship: “Thousands upon thousands of human beings, usually young adults or even adolescents, fell into the sinister, ghostly category of the desaparecidos”37—­catastrophic ghosts whose absent presence continues to haunt society today. Yet what subjects are implied by victim and disappeared? Who or what is visible in these categories of human rights and memory? The prologue provides an answer to these questions as it constructs the figure of the victim of the military dictatorship in Argentina as ranging from “those who were proposing a social revolution, to aware adolescents who merely went out to the shanty towns [villas-​miseria] to help the people living there . . . trade union leaders fighting for better wages; youngsters in student unions; journalists who did not support the regime; psychologists and sociologists simply for belonging to suspicious professions; young pacifists; nuns and priests who had taken the teachings of Christ to shanty areas [barriadas miserables]; the friends of these people, too, and the friends of friends.”38 The victims of state violence, then, are revolutionaries, students, union leaders, journalists, professionals, and religious figures—­educated and predominately middle-​class subjectivities who dedicated their lives to helping those in need. This emphasizes the inherent ethical good they embodied as

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39

victimized subjects and the horrific destruction of their lives by the military regime. However, this description also performs a foundational exclusion of those very people in need—­those living in the villas-​miseria and barriadas miserables—­as the nonsubjects of nunca más. The people living in these poor neighborhoods were the focus of the understanding of human rights based upon economic and social equality that guided the political acts of most of those who were tortured and killed, but they are elided from the textual narrative focused on the figure of the victim/ hero who suffered state violence. Here we observe a double erasure in the rhetorical gesture of nunca más: a depoliticization of the victims of torture and disappearance during dictatorship, who then become the emblematic figures of human rights discourse, replacing the marginalized populations they sought to help. This constitutive exclusion of nonvictims and nonheroes who don’t qualify as subjects of memory and human rights is inherent to the discourse of nunca más in both the past and the present. A similar rhetorical gesture appears in the introductory texts to Brasil: Nunca mais (BNM henceforth), a report resulting from years of secret investigation into testimony in the military’s records of tribunals, published in 1985 by the Archdiocese of São Paulo. The BNM is presented as a contribution to the struggle “to sweep from the face of the earth the practice of torture and eliminate from humanity the source of torture,”39 invoking a discourse of international humanitarianism that draws on the UDHR, the World Council of Churches Statement on Torture (1977), and the United Nations Convention against Torture (1984).40 It includes two prologues: one written by Cardinal Paulo Evaristo Arns, then archbishop of São Paulo, and the other by Phillip Potter, the former general secretary of the World Council of Churches. Both Evaristo Arns and Potter clearly define the subjects of human rights in the report as those suffering from “political” repression by the military dictatorship, with Evaristo Arns describing “the Church’s work in São Paulo in defense of political prisoners”41 while Potter notes that the BNM examines “the fate of students, professors, and intellectuals who had been challenging the political, economic, and social system imposed by the new regime and who were subject to summary imprisonment and torture.”42 This focus on a specific interpretation of human rights and the political continues in the introduction, which defines the purpose of the project: “This book is the report on an investigation in the field of human rights. It is an unprecedented examination of the political repression that was directed against thousands of Brazilians

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considered by the military to be adversaries of the military regime that took power in April 1964. It is also an analysis of the resistance to that regime.”43 Here we observe the production of human rights subjects confined to a finite understanding of the political, based upon an ideological disagreement with the military regime within the binary of repression/ resistance. The subjects of human rights presented in the BNM are those students, professors, intellectuals—­and tangentially all militant political activists (labor unions, armed revolutionary organizations, etc.)—­that were engaged in activities that challenged the precepts of the dictatorship. These are the visible figures of human rights, who were subjected to imprisonment, torture, murder, and disappearance as “political repression” by DEOPS agents and other groups associated with the military government. These victims are not depoliticized as in the ANM, but rather are presented as resistant political subjects challenging the oppression of the military regime in the name of democracy. This echoes the rearticulation of the notion of resistance by political militants returning from exile after the 1979 Amnesty Law in the rhetorical key of liberal humanitarianism. In this way, BNM enacts the same discursive maneuver of international humanitarian discourse as the ANM, presenting this resistance through more palatable notions of democracy and civil/political rights while concealing the radical political militancy of many of the victims—­particularly those involved in armed groups who had the ultimate goal of installing a nonliberal society. Yet, like the ANM, the BNM also alludes to nonsubjects of nunca mais, such as the marginalized communities in whose name the victims of state violence acted. Potter, for example, uses language very similar to the ANM to describe those who were tortured or killed during the dictatorship as “precisely those who raise their voices or act for the poor and oppressed.”44 Potter also stresses that the practices of torture and violence have been present throughout Brazilian history, placing the military dictatorship in the context of a continuum of systemic violence beginning with colonization, in which the institution of the church was complicit: “The treatment of Indians, the cruel institution of slavery that was abolished in 1888, and the violent way in which Brazil was exploited over the centuries—­all these have left their mark on the mentality of the people, and especially on the ruling classes.”45 This marks a difference with ANM, as BNM traces violations of human rights beyond dictatorship, alluding to oppression and marginalization

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during both authoritarian and democratic regimes. However, the “poor and oppressed” indigenous populations and Afro-​Brazilian descendants of slaves are rhetorically placed under erasure in the concept of nunca mais and the specific focus of the BNM report. They are appropriated in the (counter)hegemonic discourse of repression and resistance during dictatorship with the visible heroic/victimized subjects at the center.46 Published in 1989 by Servicio Paz y Justicia (SERPAJ) Uruguay, a nongovernmental organization composed of lawyers, social scientists, and private citizens from Uruguay and abroad, Uruguay Nunca más (UNM hereafter) appeared later than its counterparts in Brazil and Argentina, creating a temporal and institutional distance that allows a more critical engagement with the concept of nunca más than in the other texts. The book was strategically published one month prior to the 1989 national plebiscite on overturning the Ley de Caducidad that granted impunity to military personnel for acts of violence committed during the dictatorship.47 SERPAJ justifies the project with the same reasoning “that moved our neighbors in Argentina and Brazil,” who “saw the need to write and publish a report that would make Nunca Más sound loud and clear in their countries”48 Like the other reports, the UNM emphasizes learning from the past to prevent state-​ sanctioned violence in the future: “In addition to honoring the basic claim of justice owed to the victims, those of us who wrote and edited Uruguay Nunca Más felt an obligation to do everything possible to prevent the events from happening again.”49 The preface and introduction50 to the report largely employ the discourse of liberal humanitarianism to describe the “gravity of the attack on liberties, on civil and political rights, on personal dignity”51 during the dictatorship. The introduction explicitly proposes to focus on the “human condition of the victims”52 and not to offer political solidarity with “the flags of these men and women who were tortured, disappeared, assassinated, unjustly incarcerated, or exiled.”53 Echoing the pragmatic turn to liberal notions of civil and political rights observed in the ANM and BNM, the authors suggest that “by rejecting a politically engaged nature in this book we seek to avoid the impression that this is a work ‘by and for’ those who share the political views of the people who were persecuted by the Uruguayan dictatorship.”54 This approach to the presentation of human rights violations by the dictatorship no doubt corresponds to an intent to mobilize a vote against the Ley de Caducidad. It depoliticizes the victims by invoking an “ethical” higher ground, arguing that the rights of all human beings maintain “such a

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high value that all deserve their rights to be defended”55 regardless of political convictions and beliefs. Also connected with mobilizing a popular vote against impunity, UNM directly criticizes the systemic repression and violence practiced by military personnel during the dictatorship in Uruguay, laying blame squarely upon the state: “And then there is the matter of impunity for the criminals and violators/rapists, not only of defenseless women but also of all types of human rights. Torture, prison for ideological reasons, forced disappearances, coordinated repression, and many other methods of infringing upon basic rights were employed within the framework of the National Security Doctrine. Techniques of state terrorism were implemented to dominate and demobilize the country, plunging all its inhabitants into insecurity.”56 Here not only does the text denounce the military dictatorship for a litany of human rights abuses, but it also describes the systemic violence as affecting all Uruguayan citizens, not solely those deemed “subversives” under the military’s National Security Doctrine. Throughout the text, the dictatorship is presented as a war against the pueblo uruguayo using the language of Article 3 of the UDHR57 to construct a collective victim of state violence: “Mutilating, damaging, and abusing the security of a person became habitual. Producing suffering by indiscriminately violating all liberties and securities of a person became the strongest guarantee of a National Security that nobody chose.”58 While the systematic censorship, violence, and control of Uruguayan society during the dictatorship can unquestionably be seen as a collective trauma experienced by the pueblo, this language also serves to appropriate the experiences of nonsubjects of nunca más within the discourse of victimization by state terror. This discursive maneuver also occurs in the UNM’s discussion of the military’s violent production of the disappeared as noncitizens and “nonbeings,” not even as criminals. “In all democratic societies criminals [delincuentes] reserve the right to be prosecuted and tried, to be acknowledged as prisoners and to know their sentence; regardless of the offense, they remain persons.”59 This parallels the description of the disappeared in both the ANM and BNM as subjects completely deprived of all civil and political rights, a “homo sacer” as developed by Giorgio Agamben or the depoliticized, private individuals of Hannah Arendt’s formulation. Yet in this discussion the figure of the delincuente also emerges, presented as holding the rights to be publicly recognized as a prisoner, prosecuted, and tried that are denied to the disappeared. This echoes a distinction between political prisoners

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and common prisoners under dictatorship and their respective visibility as human rights subjects in the discourse of ethical humanitarianism. Military regimes’ practice of disappearing political activists was important precisely because these individuals were visible as subjects of civil and political rights, while “common” prisoners are constitutively excluded from the notion of victim based in these terms. The focus on the disappeared as the predominant human rights victim of dictatorship, while unquestionably important, prevents the interrogation of the social and economic conditions that constructed common prisoners as delincuentes and formed the basis for the political acts of many of the disappeared.

A Teleology of Religious and Philosophical Rights In addition to establishing the victimized figures of civil and political rights as the dominant subjects of postdictatorial memory, all three texts distribute a particular understanding of human rights founded on a teleological narrative of Western philosophy, religion, and civilization. The ANM, for example, is framed as a continuation of the mythic tradition of “all the ethical principles which the great religions and the noblest philosophies have evolved through centuries . . . from the rights enshrined in the French Revolution to those expressed in the universal declarations of human rights and the great encyclicals of this century.”60 It continues by arguing that all “civilized nations” have constitutional guarantees that should never be suspended “even in the most catastrophic state of emergency: the right of life; the right to security of the person; the right to a trial; the right not to suffer either inhuman conditions of detention, denial of justice or summary execution.”61 This repeats the problematic narrative of a long history of rights couched in Western religion and philosophy that was critiqued by Moyn, ignoring the recent and contingent history of contemporary notions of international human rights. By referencing the UDHR, the French Revolution, and religious encyclicals as the forbearers to its project, the ANM establishes the violation of civil/political rights (right to life, due process, not to suffer inhumane conditions of detainment, etc.) as the sole atrocities of the military regimes. This places the liberal interpretation of human rights subjectivities at the center of the discourse of nunca más, again eliding economic, social, and cultural rights from the notion of state violence.

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The ANM wraps its call for truth and justice in the rhetoric of Christian values and the nation, repeating the discursive mechanisms of the dictatorship to justify its so-​called National Reorganization Project: “All we are asking for is truth and justice, in the same way that the churches of different denominations have done, in the understanding that there can be no true reconciliation until the guilty repent and we have justice based on truth.”62 The text directly accuses the armed forces of acts of state violence—­“Human rights were violated at all levels by the Argentine state during the repression carried out by its armed forces”63—­but it also repeats the rhetoric of heroic patriotism by lauding those military personnel who didn’t torture as the “true heirs” of the national independence heroes who “fought so heroically despite their lack of means to bring freedom to half a continent.”64 While this recognizes the fact that not all rank and file soldiers actively participated in acts of state terror, the discursive return to the mythical founding of Argentine national identity by the heroes of the past reinforces liberal notions of rights and freedom. Thus, those who were tortured or killed become victims of the violation of political and civil rights granted to Argentine citizens, effectively contributing to the discourse of national reconciliation that dominated the political discourse of the early stages of postdictatorship. The framing of “never again” within a discourse of religious morality is most obvious in the BNM, as it was spearheaded by the Archdiocese of São Paulo and the World Council of Churches.65 The book opens with an epigraph from the Bible (Hebrews 10:32–­35) that sets the tone for the engagement with the concepts of victims, justice, and political subjectivity in the rest of the text. It establishes the narrative of human rights subjects as heroes/victims (“You endured a hard struggle with sufferings / But were not overcome”)66 and alludes to solidarity between those who suffered physically or mentally at the hands of the military and those who bear witness to human rights violations (“Sometimes you were publicly exposed to abuse and affliction / For you had compassion for prisoners”).67 Finally, there is an allusion to a messianic intervention through spiritual recompense in heaven in the face of the impossibility of seeking justice for torture and murder committed by military personnel (“And you joyfully accepted the plundering . . . / Since you knew that you yourselves had / A better possession and an abiding one / Therefore do not lose your courage, / Which has a great reward”).68 Thus, from its first words, BNM offers a narrative focused on catastrophe and messianism, which places the political component

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of memory and human rights under erasure through the ethical call to bear witness to horror. Both prologues guide the production of human rights subjects in BNM, articulated through an appeal to Christian values and idealized symbols of nation, as well as international humanitarian discourse. Evaristo Arns opens by comparing those who were imprisoned and tortured by the military regime with the figure of Jesus Christ, establishing a parallel between the Bible and international human rights organizations: “Christ himself, who ‘went about doing good’ . . . (Acts 10:38), was persecuted, tortured, and killed. His legacy to us is this mission of working for the kingdom of God, which is justice, truth, freedom, and love.”69 Throughout his text Evaristo Arns invokes Christianity and nationalism, two dominant discursive devices of the military regime, yet employs them as a critique of state violence (“The image of God, stamped upon the human person, is always unique. That image alone can save and preserve the image of Brazil and the world”)70 and a justification for the report, “written in blood and with much love for our country.”71 Potter’s prologue is inscribed with a more global view of human rights subjects, but one that is inextricably linked to religious values. He invokes both the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the World Council of Churches’ own declaration as the basis for the “promotion of human rights and of the inviolable dignity of the human person”72 that justify the nunca mais project. Like Evaristo Arns, Potter couches his criticism of the military’s use of torture and disappearance in the very rhetoric of Christianity that the dictatorship claims to defend, “the very denial of our God-​given human identity, contrary to the will and act of our creator.”73 However, Potter also offers a strong indictment of the actions of the military regime, its rhetoric of national security, and the international political economy that (in)directly supported its actions: “In the pursuit of rapid economic development, a military regime assumes exceptional powers and dispenses with the constitutional rights of the citizen. . . . Even more important is the economic and military involvement of countries where security is based on the control of the working population. This book is not only about one country, but about the whole community of nations. We are all responsible for what happened in Brazil.”74 This is a clear critique of global capitalism and its effects, as well as the participation of all nations in producing and sustaining the economic and political structures that permitted the actions of the Brazilian military. This moves beyond the language of liberal humanitarianism

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that guides the ANM text, a discursive framing made possible by the secret publication of the BNM by religious organizations not beholden to government entities and the notion of “reconciliation.” Thus in his prologue Potter offers a hint of a larger conceptualization of human rights that includes economic and social concerns and articulates a class-​based critique of militarism. Potter closes his prologue by invoking Jesus as the foundational figure of both torture and forgiveness. “We do this in the name of Christ, who was tortured and crucified so that we may have life in all its fullness.”75 He then cites two of the best-​known phrases attributed to Jesus in the Bible, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do” and “You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free,”76 which placed in the context of Nunca mais become contradictory statements that serve as guides for the “transition” to democracy. The first phrase appears to absolve the military of guilt and directly contradicts the argument made earlier in the prologue that torturers were conscious of their actions, while the second phrase provides a religious justification for the search for the juridical truth about torture and the final whereabouts of the disappeared. Thus, while offering a direct critique of the military dictatorship in Brazil and its relationship to political and economic structures of global capitalism, Potter ultimately repeats ANM’s call to find out the truth about human rights violations while providing amnesty (forgiveness) to torturers for their actions, justified through the rhetoric of “pious christianity.”77 Unsurprisingly, a direct religious discourse is absent from the UNM, as SERPAJ was moved to action because “neither the government nor the church provided a Nunca Más report.”78 This justifies the project as a patriotic act within a national discourse in favor of the “pueblo,” presented as a collective victim maimed by the dictatorship through “the depth of the cuts into the soul of the people. The open wounds, the infection left in the social body, in the identity of the Uruguayan people.”79 Yet the philosophical guide for the project frames state violence through the optic of liberal humanitarianism and what Andreas Huyssen has called “the globalization of Holocaust discourse.”80 SERPAJ places the UNM in dialogue with other “instances of war, state terrorism, genocide, and other atrocities,”81 specifically alluding to the Holocaust (i.e., citing Elie Wiesel, the Nuremberg trials, etc.) and the dictatorships in the Southern Cone as corollary (though not equivalent) experiences where “the ‘true judgement’ has always been a moral one and has been the heritage of nations and of history.”82

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This “moral judgement” is primarily articulated through a patriotic duty to remember the past and bring justice to those military personnel who committed human rights violations by voting to repeal the Ley de Caducidad. The text directly compares the continued impunity for military personnel in Uruguay with infamous Nazi torturers and murders Josef Megele and Klaus Barbie: “The Mengeles and Barbies who roam our streets cannot be found or be brought to justice.”83 This is not meant to fully equate the experiences of political activists during the dictatorship in Uruguay with the genocide of the Jewish population in Nazi Germany, but rather serves as a “productive inscription of certain tropes and images, ethical and political evaluations. . . . Holocaust discourse functions like an international prism that helps focus the local discourse about the desaparecidos in both its legal and its commemorative spaces.”84 Yet the use of the Holocaust as a trope inscribes the focus on civil and political rights, the so-​called negative liberties of all human beings according to the UDHR, as the philosophical frame for the juridical information contained in the report, in line with the turn to ethical humanitarianism as the dominant approach to engagement with the victims of dictatorship.

Dictatorship, Democracy, and Nunca más/mais The final piece I examine here is the way the reports articulate the relationship between memory and human rights through the notion of nunca más/mais. All three texts argue for the importance of remembering the atrocities of the dictatorial past as part of a dedication to justice and human rights in a democratic society guided by rule of law. For the ANM and BNM, published at the moment of transition to indirect democratic forms of government, democracy is presented as the bearer and protector of human rights. In the ANM, for example, Ernesto Sabato argues that “it is only democracy which can save a people from horror on this scale, only democracy which can keep and safeguard the sacred, essential rights of man. Only with democracy will we be certain that never again will events such as these, which have made Argentina so sadly infamous throughout the world, be repeated in our nation.”85 The BNM makes a similar argument in favor of “the consolidation of democratic society” by working “to remove the vestiges of authoritarianism and to build a state based on the rule of law. The state must not only be firm in its foundations, but also receptive to criticism. People

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must be allowed to participate, dissent, and challenge, and the cry of the poor, the cry of all the people, must be heard.”86 While one can understand the idealized rhetoric that equates democratic forms of government with a commitment to human rights at this historical moment, in contrast to the dictatorial period from which both countries were emerging, this discourse elides the long tradition of civilly sanctioned state violence and torture against non-​middle-​class and non-​elite subjects in both countries. And, in hindsight, we have observed that democratic forms of government do not guarantee human rights. There is a dissonance in the call to create a democratic community where “the cry of the poor” can be heard when these screams are themselves appropriated within the notion that shedding light on the atrocities committed by the military regimes will “ensure that the violence, the infamy, the injustice, and the persecution of Brazil’s recent past should never again be repeated.”87 By conflating transitional justice for those who suffered at the hands of the military regime with the transition to a humanitarian discourse of civil and political rights, the economically and socially marginalized communities in whose name these largely middle-​ class constituencies fought are constitutively excluded as subjects of human rights discourse. The UNM also marks the dictatorship as a catastrophic break that can only be repaired through the return to democracy and rule of law, “the institutional and democratic consolidation that we all desire following the traumatic rupture of all our social and legal structures is achieved by reestablishing an ethical approach at all levels and in all institutions.”88 However, the UNM makes an important departure from the Argentine and Brazilian texts: it presents a less idealized view of nunca más while problematizing who or what is included among the victims of human rights abuses: “We do not intend that this report be read as a moral treatise. If the violation of ethical principles is more graphically described in some cases than in others, that does not mean that we value one right more than another or care more about preserving life than about liberty or social and economic rights.”89 This recognition of the conflict between liberal notions of human rights (i.e., individual life, freedom, security, etc.) and the social and economic rights included in the UDHR but elided from the rhetoric of international humanitarianism (the right to social security, equal pay, favorable remuneration, standard of living, etc.) offers a more critical engagement with the concept of never again than do the Argentine or Brazilian texts. The four-​year delay in the publication of the UNM

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following the official end of the dictatorship in Uruguay provided an opportunity to evaluate the results of political democracy in ways not afforded by the texts published immediately after the end of the dictatorship. The fact that the UNM was produced by SERPAJ, a civil society group that was not sanctioned by the state or dominated by the church, allows the authors to frame the report outside of notions of reconciliation and a moral duty to both discover the truth and “forgive” the actions of military and police personnel. This critical engagement with the concept of nunca más is most evident in the closing of the preface, much of which was deleted from the abridged 1992 English translation of the report. I cite the original paragraph at length to make clear the difference in rhetoric of the UNM—­how it problematizes the idealized understanding of nunca más and its visible subjects: Perhaps an underlying principle has been unconsciously guiding us, that history generally doesn’t record more than the actions and words of those who were somehow able to cling to life, give it meaning, and express it. But there are multitudes of men, women, and children whose dignity was impeded through abuse, terror, or lies. And for this reason, they have remained silent. The victims who were able to give testimony, and whose voices were heard, had more success. It is our task to show the other side of words and light. Those of us who were lucky must be responsible to this silence and the shadow cast by our Uruguayan history so that we are not its accomplices.90

While we can read this quote in various ways, one of which is a repetition of the ethical fidelity to the Other critiqued by Ranciére, Bosteels, and Moreiras, the original text is not articulated solely within the framework of humanitarian aid or “speaking for” the abject subjects of human rights. When coupled with the above quotation, which places economic and social rights on the same plane as civil and political rights, we can interpret these words as pointing toward the other side of nunca más—­its negative articulation—­as a recognition of what is elided from dominant notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. The authors close the preface by advising readers of UNM that “what is important is that readers learn how much there is to do. It must never happen again.”91 They then make a final reference to the legacy of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights by citing a speech by

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René Maheu given on its twentieth anniversary: “The price of human freedom has not yet been paid by mankind, nor even defined at its just value. The immemorial work continues, at this very moment.”92 We can read this quotation and the multiple references to capital, value, and labor contained in it as nod toward an understanding of human rights outside of the individual liberal subject. It is the trace of a focus on social and economic rights that was at the heart of the political militancy of those who suffered state violence but has been erased through the ethical call to bear witness to the victims of terror. While not negating the violence experienced by those who suffered at the hands of the military regime, the individual and collective traumatic effects of state violence, and the fight for juridical justice as recompense for these atrocities, UNM authors caution against privileging these human rights subjects over others. In this sense, while the UNM largely focuses on civil and political rights, it also articulates a more nuanced notion of nunca más when compared to the Argentine and Brazilian texts. The UNM recognizes the value of nunca más as a rhetorical tool for human rights activism but also cautions against attributing a specific political subjectivity to the relationship between memory and human rights. Through this close reading of the prologues and introductions of Argentina Nunca más, Brasil Nunca mais, and Uruguay Nunca más, I have attempted to show how all three reports echo the turn to liberal humanitarianism during the first postdictatorial moment in the three countries. The framing of the concept of nunca más/mais as remembering the atrocities of dictatorship so that rights of all citizens are protected in political democracy is the foundational gesture linking memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. However, as we have seen, the fusion of these concepts in the notion of nunca más/ mais forecloses the processes of political subjectivation beyond the dominant victim/hero figure suffering from state violence or resisting the dictatorship. The point of this discussion is not to criticize the call for democracy at this historical moment or the attempt to juridically document the torture, murder, and disappearance committed by the military regimes in these reports. My intent is to show how the turn to a human rights discourse couched in liberal humanitarianism presented in each Nunca más/Nunca mais text echoes the language of “transition” articulated by the military regimes. The effects of this discursive transition continue to be visible today, seen through an acritical citation of the notion of nunca más/mais in postdictatorial culture that keeps the focus on recuperating the testimonial memory of highly visible political

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subjects of dictatorial violence while maintaining the invisibility of nonsubjects of the political in times of dictatorship and democracy.

Nunca más/mais and the Subjects of Postdictatorial Discourse The effects of the rhetoric of nunca más/mais are particularly evident in institutionalized cultural sites such as the Memorial da Resistência in São Paulo (MDR), the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria in Montevideo (MUME), and the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires (Espacio Memoria or EMPDDHH). The mission statements of these spaces articulate the double task of recuperating the memory of the “recent past” and promoting a culture of human rights in the present, echoing the foundational discourse of never again. While I discuss each cultural center in the following chapters, here I would like to briefly note how each mission statement couples the concepts of memory and human rights using precisely the same language, which reiterates the hero/ victim narratives and liberal notions of human rights that accompanied the transition to political democracy in each country. The MDR’s mission is to recuperate the “memories of political resistance and repression during the republican period in Brazil,”93 largely focused on the military dictatorship. MUME is dedicated to “the construction of memory related to State terrorism and the struggle of the Uruguayan people against the dictatorship.”94 The EMPDDHH presents itself as “a space of tribute to victims and of condemnation of the crimes against humanity committed during State terrorism.”95 Thus, the first piece of the missions of the three centers focuses on the memory of political repression and resistance during the military dictatorships, repeating the rhetoric of a battle between the “people” and state terror through the dual figures of innocent victim and resistant hero, who are the visible subjects of postdictatorial culture. Each mission statement then offers a complementary goal of promoting human rights in the present, fusing memory and human rights through the rhetoric of never again. The MDR states its secondary goal as “the valorization of democratic principles, the exercise of citizenship, and the awareness of human rights,”96 while MUME works toward “the promotion of human rights and the memory of the struggle for freedom, democracy, and social justice,”97 and Espacio Memoria pursues the “promotion of democratic values and the defense of human

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rights.”98 So each cultural center repeats the foundational notion of never again as its primary mission, linking the memory of dictatorial violence and acts of resistance by visible political subjects in the name of “democracy” as essential to establishment of a human rights culture in the present. These connections are articulated through liberal understanding of democracy, freedom, citizenship, and civil/political rights (though the MUME statement does allude to the concept of social justice). As we’ll see, the permanent exhibits in each space largely echo this discourse, with allusions to social and economic rights predominately absent and the heroic/victimized figures of those who challenged the military regimes inserted at the center of the relationship between memory and human rights. In this way, the mission statements and permanent exhibits of these cultural sites ultimately continue the exclusionary notion of human rights subjectivity articulated through nunca más/mais, and confine the processes of political subjectivation in postdictatorship. The dual victim/hero figure forecloses who or what counts as subjects of memory and human rights in both the past and the present, and is always already exclusionary of nonvictims and nonheroes. This produces a situation where, as Gustavo Remedi suggests, when “the reified image of the victim and the victimizer became the primary focus and emblem of today’s human rights mobilizations, the victim’s own struggle for human rights is often sidetracked or altogether forgotten.”99 In other words, the focus on the victim/hero narrative through the rhetoric of nunca más/mais places the political acts of militants under erasure, eliding their struggle for social and economic equality in favor of politically palatable—­and marketable—­notions of ethical humanitarianism in the face of horror and nostalgic epic narratives of resistance in the name of democracy and civil/political rights. This foundational exclusion is replicated in much academic and activist work in the region focused on memory and human rights in postdictatorship, where “never again” is presented as the central concept linking these two notions in both the past and the present. For example, in the introduction to Accounting for Violence, Bilbija and Payne repeatedly refer to the “ ‘Never Again’ enterprise”100 as a goal of the postdictatorial memory market.101 While offering an excellent discussion of the complexities and debates surrounding the uses of “Never Again” by victims and perpetrators of torture during dictatorship in relation to the “global political struggle for ‘Never Again’ ”102 and the over/underexposure of the slogan “Never Again” via

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the commercialization of memory in postdictatorial culture, they never problematize the exclusionary nature of the notion of never again itself. This is evident in the portrayal of the memory market competition as a discursive battle between victims and perpetrators for control of the narrative “truth” about the dictatorial past, repeating the (counter) hegemonic logic of postdictatorial memory. They contrast the commercial success of the Nunca más/Nunca mais reports103 with the failure of testimonial accounts where the “perpetrators attempt to overpower victims’ and survivors’ memories with their own,”104 such as former Argentine police officer Miguel Etchecolatz’s book, La otra campana del Nunca Más (which they translate as The Other Side of Never Again), “justifying” the use of torture and disappearance against “subversives” during the dictatorship. Yet, as I have argued, the other side of never again does not refer to the testimonials of military personnel. It is the name for that which is excluded from or appropriated within the (counter)hegemonic discourse of hero/victim and perpetrator, the nonheroes and nonvictims who do not qualify as subjects of nunca más/ mais. “Never Again” will merely appear as an idealized slogan articulated within the global consensus of humanitarianism unless we open up this concept to its constitutive other side, beyond resistant heroes, disappeared victims, and the task of bearing witness to the atrocities of dictatorship and its effects. The exclusion of nonsubjects of social and economic rights in postdictatorial memory is traced in Crenzel’s detailed examination of the distribution and reception of the concept of nunca más in present-​day Argentina. Crenzel demonstrates that “the fracturing of the rhetorical pact proposed by Nunca Más between democracy and the protection of human rights is more profoundly felt” by readers from poorer sectors of Argentine society, “as they detect certain similarities between democracy and the dictatorship, associating, in particular, the violence described in the book with the police violence they themselves have suffered or have heard that others in their neighborhoods have suffered. For this group, time is not historicized and is unaffected by political transformations or the changes in government.”105 This disjunction in the reception of nunca más by the poorest sectors of society not only allows us to problematize the notion that political democracies are automatically accompanied by an increased respect for human rights, but also provides a space to interrogate who or what is excluded from the coupling of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture.

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Teresa Caldeira (2000) offers a similar critique of the consensual relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorial Brazil, arguing that “the meaning of human rights depends on how the concept is politically articulated in specific contexts. Defenders of human rights were not stigmatized when the cases concerned middle-​class political prisoners and when the so-​called abertura process was just beginning. . . . Attention to common prisoners’ rights was not included in the demands, although violation of their rights was routine.”106 Caldeira demonstrates that after the amnesty law secured freedom for political prisoners and the attention of human rights groups (such as Tortura Nunca Mais) turned to “regular prisoners, who have continued to be tortured and forced to live in degrading conditions to the present day,” the notion of “guaranteeing human rights to ‘criminals’ proved unacceptable” and was accompanied by wide public support (even by the most marginalized communities) for an interpretation of human rights as “privileges for bandits.”107 Paralleling these arguments, Sandra Lorenzano suggests that “Argentine history can be seen as a long chain of violent erasures, exclusions and suppressions of the Other, of difference: Indians, ‘barbarians,’ the poor, women. The desaparecidos, in this sense, are not the creation of the last military dictatorship . . . but rather a foundational figure for the nation.”108 Lorenzano’s focus on various moments of state violence and erasure allows her to examine subjects of memory and human rights beyond those directly relating to the most recent military dictatorship, or what she calls the “small voice of history,”109 following Ranajit Guha. She suggests that “amid the ruins of neoliberal ‘progress,’ these small voices salvage the memories of the desaparecidos of our history, and with them, construct a new individual and collective dignity.”110 It is key to remember the historical multiplicity and simultaneity of Lorenzano’s notion of desaparecidos, which refers to all marginalized subjects and not solely those who suffered at the hands of the most recent military dictatorship in Argentina. In this sense, contributions such as these push us to think beyond the dictatorship as the foundational traumatic golpe for continued human rights abuse and impunity for state violence in the present. They open a space to view dictatorship and its effects through the lens of repeated, socially sanctioned violence and exclusion of the nonsubjects of nunca más, based largely on differences of class, race, and citizenship. Juan E. Méndez argues that in the postdictatorial Southern Cone, “the victims of torture, extrajudicial execution, and the occasional

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forced disappearance are now anonymous; these victims are not the well-​known political prisoners with whom the rest of the world instantly sympathizes, but instead tend to be young persons from a poor district whose victimization hardly merits a newspaper story.”111 I would take this one step farther to argue that these subjects have always been anonymous—­the ethical fusion of nunca más/mais prevents these nonpolitical subjects from appearing within memory practices and the discourse of human rights in both the past and the present. The dominant hero/victim narratives of postdictatorial cultural memory, focused on witnessing the violence and trauma experienced by those who have always been visible as political subjects, ultimately renders invisible the social injustice experienced by nonheroes and nonvictims. These are subaltern subjects in the sense developed by Alberto Moreiras—­ “what is left out of any and all hegemonic closures,”112 those who have endured violence and human rights violations at the hands of both state and nonstate actors, in dictatorship and democracy, whose experiences are elided from or appropriated within dominant rhetoric about these themes. The constitutive nonsubjects of nunca más/mais—­any anonymous subject excluded from the ethical suture of memory and human rights in postdictatorship—­can enact a political subjectivation only if the heterogeneous tension between these concepts is reopened. So how are we to conceptually undo the ethical fusion of memory and human rights in postdictatorship without falling into the trap of placing art and politics “in the service of the unrepresentable and of witnessing either yesterday’s genocide, the never-​ending catastrophe of the present, or the immemorial trauma of civilization,”113 or turning to identity politics as an “ethical community” of humanitarian rights where “everyone is included”114 in the neoliberal order established by the military regimes? Andreas Huyssen is on the right path in his consistent critique of the privileging of trauma in memory studies, which serves to “unduly confine our understanding of memory, marking it too exclusively in terms of pain, suffering, and loss. It would deny human agency and lock us into compulsive repetition. Memory, whether individual or generational, political or public, is always more than only the prison house of the past.115 Huyssen’s critique of memory as trauma echoes Rancière’s attempt to dismantle the erasure of the political through the ethical turn to catastrophe, arguing that “history as trauma  .  .  . does not help much to understand the political layers of memory discourse in our time, although it may represent one of its articulations.”116 In this sense, while not ignoring the importance of trauma theory and

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psychoanalysis to both examine and work through the effects of physical and mental violence, Huyssen contends that our approach must not be limited to a focus on the catastrophes of the past if we are to activate memory for new political uses in the present. To move beyond this focus on historical trauma, Huyssen has recently suggested that memory studies in the humanities “need to forge a much more robust link with human rights, cultural rights and transitional justice discourse. Such a shift in focus will allow us to move away from an all too exclusive privileging of the past as subject of investigation  .  .  . and to reclaim memory for present and future struggles about rights.”117 This increased engagement and recognition of “certain inherent limitations of both human rights and memory discourse may then indeed represent a first step toward overcoming the gap between them. The individual strengths of both fields must be mobilized to supplement each other in order to mitigate the deficiencies of either.”118 While I agree in general with Huyssen, I believe that a “more robust link” between memory and human rights is not the appropriate conceptual approach in postdictatorial cultures where the discourse of human rights and transitional justice is predominately focused on reckoning with past atrocities specific to military dictatorship. In the postdictatorial Southern Cone, the problem isn’t the gap between memory and human rights, but rather that they are always already fused under the rhetoric of never again. Thus, to echo the argument for undoing the ethical erasure of politics and aesthetics in critical theory articulated by such thinkers as Rancière, Bosteels, and Moreiras, I contend that we need to decouple the concepts of memory and human rights in postdictatorship studies in order to open up a space for anonymous political subjectivities to appear, and not maintain them as coextensive concepts turned toward the catastrophe of the past. Joseph Slaughter’s critical approach to the study of human rights is useful for the conceptual decoupling of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. Particularly important is Slaughter’s problematization of the exclusionary discursive mechanisms that guide human rights discourse in “the liberal public square’s hegemonic functioning.”119 Echoing the work of Rancière, Judith Butler, and Nancy Fraser, among others, Slaughter argues that “a public—­in its function as a deliberative community that is, ideally, consensual in character—­ enables, conventionalizes, and canonizes some verbal and conceptual forms for the expression of public opinion over others,” which “tend to abstract and reproduce the contingent assumptions, norms, and

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social relations generally shared by its members.”120 This consensual community is constructed around a “discursive threshold of membership that institutionalizes the terms of group incorporation and exclusion  .  .  . between those who can be naturalized and those who will remain disenfranchised—­ the demarginalizable and the perpet121 ually marginal.” In postdictatorial Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay, the canonical form for narrativizing memory and human rights is the notion of nunca más/mais, which utilizes the dual figure of hero/victim in humanitarian discourse as a “threshold of membership” to articulate the socially accepted and highly marketable narratives of horror, trauma, and the pursuit of justice for those who suffered from state violence during the dictatorship. However, as I have argued throughout this chapter, the dual hero/ victim figure forecloses who or what can appear as political subjects within these terms—­who or what is “demarginalizable” and who or what remains “the perpetually marginal.” This notion of the perpetually marginal echoes those testimonial or cultural interventions that are invisible within the cycle of cultural memory alluded to by Rebecca Atencio, those that fail to link up with institutional mechanisms related to human rights and cultural memory practices in postdictatorship. As Atencio suggests, “In fact, there is often much to be learned from works that fail to link: if one predictor of linkage is the ability to capture a prevailing national mood, then works that never end up moving all the way through the cycle may reveal which memories garner little sympathy and why.”122 I attempt to trace such subjects through the analysis of visual culture in the following chapters: those nonmarketable experiences within the global spectacle of human rights, which form the other side of the relationship between cultural production and juridical justice in postdictatorship. In this sense, I explore the negative articulation of nunca más/mais—­those nonheroic, nonvictimized subjects that have the capacity to disrupt the consensual relationship between memory and human rights. This approach requires us to reconceptualize human rights and memory in postdictatorial culture outside the frame of liberal humanitarianism established during the “transition” to democracy, and to explore, in the words of Fernando J. Rosenberg, “whether the rhetoric of rights might be the platform for the appearance of a different worldview, yielding not only global order of security for the sovereign individual endowed with rights against the common but a radical displacement of liberal categories.”123 Rosenberg critiques the present

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domestication of human rights discourse in Latin America within a neoliberal global humanitarianism predicated upon “inclusive” individual civil and political rights in both the market and the state, but also notes the possibility for a nonliberal use of the discourse of human rights. He explains that his notion after human rights both “acknowledges the passing of the most eventful era of human rights activism and its incorporation into the state and the market mechanisms of subordination through identity, but  .  .  . is also an expression of desire, pointing to the persistence of a post-​and transnational imagination for social change that resists codification.”124 This call to rearticulate human rights discourse and practice in a nonliberal, nonethical form echoes Samuel Moyn’s contention that scholars and activists need to repoliticize human rights, eschewing their presentation since the 1970s as “depoliticized moral norms” focused on “political and civil rights against the totalitarian and authoritarian state.”125 Instead, a successful “politics of human rights will move away from framing norms individualistically and will cease to privilege political and civil liberties,”126 making clear that “rights are to be sought not simply in the possession of personal security but also in the entitlement to economic welfare.”127 In the postdictatorial Southern Cone, this means returning to a focus on the subjects of economic and social rights that were constitutively excluded from the rhetoric of never again and the transition to democracy—­on what Susana Draper suggests “has been always left unheard—­the zones that did not and do not qualify as recyclable or memorable themes or subjects for the current market and citizenry.”128 Draper contends that in postdictatorial cultural memory, “certain limits are imposed by the market and by both left-​and right-​wing policies on what is tolerable for the politics (management) of memory, thus excluding certain areas that are currently undesirable (such as social transformability, memories that exceed the framework of remembrance of the educated middle class, and remembrances of the past that repeat the limitations experienced by the policies in the past).”129 Draper proposes a Benjaminian and Deleuzean inflected notion of the minor epic as a way to “deterritorialize” the loss of the political within what she calls “the architectonic of neoliberal freedom,”130 which dominates postdictatorship. Similar to Lorenzano’s “small voices,” the minor epic traces interruptions in consensual narratives of postdictatorship, “an inscription of deeds that come from a place that differs from the typical epic accounts . . . while attempting to create a historicization

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of marginalized deeds that were systematically relegated to a zone of invisibility.”131 Draper’s critique of the dominant modes of postdictatorial memory and her attempt to trace those subjectivities that are rendered invisible from this framework move beyond the marketable narratives of victimized horror or heroic militancy to recuperate the political acts of those who suffered state violence and reinsert them in the present. Following the work of Markarian, Draper critiques the erasure of the political in the figure of victim of state violence, or rather, the discursive elimination of the right of victims to engage in politics. “In short, to be considered a subject of human rights, it was necessary to ‘disappear’ the militant status of the disappeared. With the gradual naturalization of this discursive operation, the human right to live was gradually separated from the human right to politics. This involves a change in the narrativation of disappearance, in which what is left out is not politics but rather what I call ‘politicability.’ ”132 She then draws on Étienne Balibar’s notion of “equaliberty” to develop the concept of politicability as a way to recuperate the militancy of the disappeared: “Equaliberty would refer to that human right to politics, to politicability . . . equaliberty, as a right to politics, implies a necessary problematization of the split between a human right and a political right.”133 In other words, politicability—­the right to a potential for politics—­is the name for what was erased in the ethical turn to liberal humanitarianism near the end of the military regimes in the Southern Cone. Draper’s approach, then, attempts to open up the processes of political subjectivation for the disappeared in ways that could help reconfigure the social consensus of postdictatorship today. Yet, while her conceptualizations of politicability and minor epic are innovative ways to recuperate the militancy of those who suffered state violence during dictatorship that avoid the portrayal of their actions as a heroic epic of resistance, these concepts still ultimately place traditional political subjects (middle-​class intellectuals, militants, students, etc.) at the center of the relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. Draper herself notes this problem, drawing on Crenzel’s arguments about the reception of nunca más in poor communities in Argentina to ask, “To what extent is the relationship between human rights, citizen rights, and social class a topic that continues to be shunned by the work on memory and the defense of human rights? . . . How are we to rethink the political based on the questions about the subjects who qualify for rights?”134

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Draper begins to answer these questions in the final chapter of Afterlives of Confinement, focusing on how the Argentine films Buenos Aires vice versa and Garaje Olimpo problematize who or what is visible as subjects in postdictatorial culture. The last few pages of the book turn to the discovery in 2002 that the former site of Automores Orletti, used as a clandestine torture center during the dictatorship, was being used as an illegal sweatshop and housing for immigrant slave laborers from Bolivia. She uses this discovery to raise questions about the continued invisibility of race and class in academic work on postdictatorship: “Where do we draw the line between the disappeared prisoners in Orletti and the Bolivian slave laborers . . . ? In this question, which evokes incommensurability instead of equivalence, lies a possible new way of seeing in postdictatorship studies.”135 Here Draper offers a framework to reconfigure the study of postdictatorial culture in the Southern Cone, one focused on what is “incommensurable” with the dominant rhetoric of memory in postdictatorship, focused on the dual victim/hero figure articulated through the rhetoric of liberal humanitarianism. She suggests that when we instead interrogate the processes determining who or what is (in)visible in this relationship, “what emerges is a contrast between past and present in which each appears as multifarious (there is no one past nor one present but many), . . . [which] may spur us to retheorize the constitutive splitting of people into those who do and do not count as people (visibly and legally).”136 Dissensual Subjects examines some of the questions raised by Draper, problematizing this constitutive splitting between who or what counts as subjects of memory practices and human rights discourse in cultural sites dedicated to these themes. Political subjectivation in postdictatorship was not constrained solely by the disappearance of bodies in clandestine torture centers or the politics of forgetting, amnesty, and impunity that dominated the initial period of democracy. The fusion of memory and human rights through the rhetoric of nunca más and the discourse of liberal humanitarianism also produces an exclusionary interpretation of the political and the subjects of rights in postdictatorial culture. The erasure of aesthetics and politics described by Rancière parallels the ethical suture of memory and human rights that I trace in postdictatorial culture, in that both foreclose the litigious processes of political subjectivation that can appear in the tensions between these concepts. To undo this ethical turn, Rancière calls for a focus on those forms of art and politics that break out of the ethical

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mold turned toward the catastrophe of the past: “Returning the inventions of politics and art to their difference entails rejecting the fantasy of their purity, giving back to these inventions their status as cuts that are always ambiguous, precarious, litigious.”137 Similarly, we need to return the concepts of memory and human rights to their difference as complementary and not consubstantial notions. This includes examining cultural interventions that dispute and contest the visible subjects of memory and human rights in different ways, inserting cuts into the normalized rhetoric related to dictatorship and its effects.

Chapter 2

The Politics and Aesthetics of Resistance Memory and Subjectivity at the Memorial da Resistência in São Paulo

The Memorial da Resistência (MDR) occupies the bottom floor of the Estação Pinacoteca Museu de Arte Contemporâneo (Pinacoteca Station Museum of Contemporary Art) in the Luz neighborhood of São Paulo. The building, located at 66 Largo General Osório, was constructed in 1914 to house central offices and warehouses for the Sorocabana Railway Company, which provided transportation services throughout Brazil at the nearby Estação Luz. Upon Sorocabana’s move to the Estação Júlio Prestes in 1940, the building served as the primary headquarters of the State Department of Social and Political Order (Departamento Estadual de Ordem Política e Social; DEOPS), which had functioned as the state arm of the political police in Brazil since 1924. From this date until its elimination in 1983, DEOPS personnel detained, tortured, and killed thousands of people under the Vargas dictatorship, the military dictatorship, and multiple republican governments. Since the transfer of control of the building to the Secretaria da Cultura do Estado (State Secretary of Culture) in 1998, the space containing remnants of four DEOPS cells underwent several renovations under various state cultural entities prior to its dedication in 2008 and official unveiling in 2009 as the Memorial da Resistência, under the institutional control of the Pinacoteca do Estado de São Paulo.1 The Estação da Luz train station at the center of the district where the Memorial is located was once the affluent center of transportation and commerce of São Paulo, but the area now stages the confluence of contrasting social and economic realities. Poverty, drug abuse, prostitution, 63

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homelessness, and police brutality are commonplace in the area. Poor (im)migrants from northeastern Brazil and the exterior who live in the neighborhood rub shoulders but rarely interact with workers commuting into São Paulo from the periferia and well-​to-​do paulistanos and tourists visiting the cultural enclaves in the neighborhood. These cultural institutions include the Sala São Paulo, home to the Symphony Orchestra of the State of São Paulo; the Pinacoteca do Estado Institute of Art and the Estação Pinacoteca Museum of Contemporary Art; the Museu da Língua Portuguesa (Museum of Portuguese Language), located in the Luz train station; historical archives; and outdoor cultural events such as the annual Virada Cultural de São Paulo (Cultural Tour of São Paulo). The contrasting realities of those who inhabit the neighborhood and visitors to the gentrifying spaces of cultural capital provide context for a critical analysis of the relationship among memory, human rights, and political subjectivity produced in the Memorial da Resistência. The Memorial’s location in the Luz district and its excellent funding as part of the Pinacoteca do Estado have not escaped those attempting to connect past and present issues of human rights in the space. Ivan Seixas and Maurice Politi, leaders of a group of former political prisoners that plays a role in the direction of the Memorial, have rhetorically asked how resistance to unjust laws and authoritarianism is part of the past when “in the geographic space where the building is situated, today we can observe the renewed spectacle of behaviors that are considered ‘marginal in a civilized society’? We see people bereft of basic needs wandering and sleeping on the streets, there is incessant drug consumption that provokes violence and social degradation, and the police treat these people as violent criminals instead of victims of an unequal and unjust society.”2 These comments highlight the foundational exclusion in the notion of nunca mais and the continued invisibility of nonpolitical subjects in the hero/victim figure of human rights in postdictatorial culture. Research by Teresa Caldeira and James Holston, for example, has demonstrated that in Brazil “violent crime, police violence, and human rights abuses, all . . . increased dramatically after the institutionalization of democratic rule,”3 noting that these violations are often carried out against “innocent and unarmed civilians . . . indigenous populations, peasants, rural leaders . . . street children, adolescents in poor urban neighborhoods, and prisoners.”4 Paulo Sérgio Pinheiro concurs with this research on the continued violation of human rights in democracy, highlighting the “absence of

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the rule of law, inaccessibility of the legal system for non-​elites, structural racism and racial discrimination, and the impunity of state agents involved in serious human rights violations,”5 such as “deaths caused by police, torture, inhumane prison conditions, murder of street children and adolescents.”6 Yet Caldeira and Holston caution against considering the military regime as the sole source of the present abuse of power by and impunity for police, arguing that this is in fact an iteration of deeply rooted social inequality and popular support for state violence that continues to be directed against nonpolitical subjects in democracy: “From its creation in the early nineteenth century, the Brazilian police’s practices of violence, arbitrariness, discrimination, and disrespect of rights have been well known. . . . [T]he police have never abandoned the practices of unsubstantiated arrest, torture, and battering. These practices have not always been illegal, and they have often been exercised with the support of the citizenry.”7 Thus, while there are undoubtedly structural connections between dictatorship and the general impunity granted to police forces today, the argument that the foundations of this abuse of power are rooted in long-​standing institutionalized social inequality before the law in Brazil (e.g., colonialism, slavery, Old Republic, etc.) provides an opportunity to think beyond the notion of impunity as simply a legacy of the military regime. The reality of continued human rights violations against marginalized populations that do not count as political subjects allows us to problematize the idealized coupling of memory and human rights in postdictatorial Brazil and its presentation in cultural centers such as the MDR. The disjunction between the nonheroes and nonvictims that continue to be excluded from human rights discourse and the politically engaged activists, students, workers, armed militants, and cultural figures used as symbols of both humanitarian nunca mais and heroic resistance to the dictatorship presents a difficult task for the Memorial da Resistência: How to connect the memory of state violence against political activists in the past with the continuing violation of human rights of “nonpolitical” subjects such as poor, nonunion or undocumented workers, immigrants, and indigenous and afro-​ descendent populations? Yet this also creates an opportunity for critical engagement with the experiences of these subjects during dictatorship, which are inclusively excluded from the countermemory discourse of resistance centered on the testimonies of political activists. Opening a space where these invisible subjects of memory and human rights may be

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articulated is imperative if the curators of the Memorial da Resistência truly wish to engage the realities of present-​day life in the Luz district and alternative notions of resistance performed by its inhabitants, to ensure that “it will not only be the acts of resistance in the 20th century that will be discussed, but also the realities of the present.”8 I had the opportunity to conduct research at the Memorial da Resistência as it was transitioning to a focus on resistance in May–­June 2008, and then again in May–­June 2013 as it strengthened its visibility as a cultural center dedicated to memory and human rights. Examining the space in these two moments allows me to trace the dissonances in postdictatorial discourses of memory and human rights presented in the MDR. I do this through detailed analysis of the temporary exhibit Direito à memória e à verdade: A ditadura no Brasil 1964–­1985 (The right to memory and truth: The dictatorship in Brazil), which inaugurated the Memorial in 2008; the present long-​term exhibit, Controle, repressão e resistência (Control, repression, and resistance); and a recent temporary installation that explores these issues through aesthetic interventions by former political prisoners, Insurreições: Expressões plásticas nos presídios políticos de São Paulo (Insurrections: Artistic expressions in the political prisons of São Paulo). While I problematize both the initial and current long-​term exhibits for largely repeating the rhetoric of nunca mais with idealized heroic/victimized subjects of dictatorship at the center, I contend that temporary art installations such as Insurreições reopen political subjectivation related to the concepts of memory, human rights, and justice and undo the ethical fusion of nunca mais in postdictatorship.

Heroic Political Subjects of Postdictatorship in “Direito à memória e à verdade: A ditadura no Brasil 1964–­1985” Control of the DEOPS building was transferred from the Departamento da Justiça (Justice Department) to the State Secretary of Culture in 1998, and over the next ten years the building underwent multiple changes carried out by various state cultural entities with competing visions for the space.9 The four remaining cells were renovated, and new lighting and ventilation systems were installed, creating a clean museum-​like environment that eliminated all remnants of the physical conditions of the prison cells. Between 1998 and 2008 various cultural works engaging themes of dictatorship were presented in the

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space, including the theatrical piece Lembrar é resistir (To remember is to resist), which used the remaining cells (prior to the renovation) as an interactive performance site for actors and spectators to explore the experiences of incarceration and torture inflicted on political dissidents by the military regime.10 In 2002 the bottom floor of the building was inaugurated as the Memorial da Liberdade (Freedom Memorial), and over the next few years a number of temporary exhibits related to memory, human rights, and dictatorships were installed in the space.11 After the building was transferred to the Pinacoteca do Estado in 2006, a period of debate ensued and a new museological vision was planned for the DEOPS cells, under the direction of Universidade de São Paulo (USP) researchers Maria Cristina Oliveira Bruno and Maria Luiza Tucci Carneiro, as well as Pinacoteca educator Gabriela Aidar, in conjunction with former political prisoners.12 On May 1, 2008, the name was officially changed to the Memorial da Resistência, and the first temporary exhibition was installed: Direito à memória e à verdade: A ditadura no Brasil 1964–­1985 (The right to memory and truth: The dictatorship in Brazil, ADNB). ADNB was part of the larger Direito à Memória e à Verdade project of the Secretaria Especial dos Direitos Humanos da Presidência da República (Special Secretary for Human Rights in the Office of the President, SDH/ PRA) and the Comissão Especial sobre Mortos e Desaparecidos Políticos (Special Commission on Political Deaths and Disappearances, CEMDP). The goal of the project was to develop a state-​sponsored investigation and documentation of human rights violations committed during the dictatorship and to provide reparations to families of those who had been tortured, killed, or “disappeared” by military and police personnel. In 2007 the SDH/PRA published a report, Direito à memória e à verdade, cataloging their investigation of 475 cases brought to them between 1996 and 2007, of which 356 of the “dead and disappeared” were determined to qualify for reparations for family members under Federal Law 9.140/95. While the CEMDP goals of investigating the juridical truth about the experiences of the victims and providing recognition and reparations to their families are undoubtedly important, they framed the project within the idealized notion that testimonial memory about dictatorship is coextensive with strengthening human rights culture in the present: “This testimonial book inscribes the recuperation of this memory within history. It is only through a complete understanding of the porões [clandestine sites of imprisonment and torture] and atrocities of this regrettable period of our republican life that

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the country will be able to install effective instruments to ensure that such violations of Human Rights never happen again.”13 Continued use of the rhetoric of nunca mais as the ethical suture between memory and human rights in postdictatorship maintains the exclusionary disjunction between political and nonpolitical subjects. The fact that a visual culture exhibit based on this report was chosen as the first installation in the newly named Memorial da Resistência makes it an ideal entry point to examine the relationship among memory, human rights, and political subjectivity produced through visual culture in the space, an intervention whose echoes remain in the present long-​term exhibit of the Memorial. The Direito à memória e à verdade: A ditadura no Brasil 1964–­1985 photography exhibit was installed on May 1, 2008, and remained at the Memorial da Resistência until the inauguration of the current long-​ term exhibit on January 24, 2009.14 As installed at the MDR in 2008, ADNB consisted of large panels containing black-​and-​white images accompanied by informational texts explaining major events during the dictatorship. Some panels contained outlines of figures extracted from the images and juxtaposed on top of different photographs, with brief quotes referring back to the informational texts. The entire ADNB exhibition was presented in a black and red color scheme intended to mark its political tenor and evoke nostalgic visions of social revolution and militancy during the 1960s and 1970s. The title panel contained the outline of a soldier holding a rifle with a short statement defining the overall goal of the exhibit to reiterate the right to “memory and truth” about the past: “And we remember, we have the right to remember, the right to memory. We want to know more, the right to truth.”15 The “we” in this statement refers specifically to the families of those who were detained, tortured, and murdered by the state, reflecting the original mission of the SDH/PRA to investigate the juridical truth behind the detention of thousands of Brazilians for political reasons. The title panel includes lyrics from Gonzaguinha’s iconic protest song “Pequena memória para um tempo sem memória (Legião dos Esquecidos) [A Little Memory for a Time without Memory (Legion of the Forgotten)],” intended to frame the ADNB as rescuing the experiences of “obscure characters . . . the humiliated, abused, exploited, and repressed people who tried to find a solution.”16 However, the ADNB installation focuses on repression of and resistance by political subjects in the traditional sense of the term: members of organizations that challenged the military government or people who were victimized

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for reasons connected with political ideology. This hinders the ability to connect the state violence committed during the dictatorship to human rights violations directed against those not included in the consensual understanding of the political. The Rancierean disagreement over who or what exactly constitutes the “obscured,” “exploited,” and “oppressed” is sutured throughout the ADNB exhibit, as it presents a mythic visual narrative of resistance to the military regime articulated from the perspective of the organized Left in Brazil. The exhibit does not point toward those subaltern voices alluded to in Gonzaguinha’s lyrics, but rather highlights iconic images of heroic and victimized figures of nunca mais, reproducing the foundational exclusion of nonpolitical subjects of economic and social human rights. We can observe the production of mythic subjects of memory and human rights throughout the ADNB exhibit, specifically in its presentation of students, workers, armed militants, cultural figures, and the disappeared as heroes/victims of united resistance to the military regime. The images and texts of the exhibit use much of the same language as the military uses to talk about the past and ultimately reify the rhetoric of dictatorship by presenting a narrative about the period as a “war” or a “battle” for the nation. As Andreas Huyssen has suggested, the attempt to resignify spaces by constructing a counternarrative about the past risks reproducing the same “discursive totalitarianism”17 as the “official” memory. This echoes the argument of Nelly Richard and Idelber Avelar that testimonial countermemories often construct a nostalgic “anti-​dictatorial symbol” of “victimized or heroic” political militants fighting the repression of the military regime that ultimately negates the possibility to critically engage the experiences of the dictatorial past and its effects on the present. This is evident throughout the ADNB exhibit, as the curators transform students, workers, cultural figures, the armed Left, and mass public protests such as the Passeata dos 100 Mil and the Diretas Já movement into idealized symbols of “silenced” memory and truth about the dictatorship. This discourse ultimately participates in what I have called the (counter)hegemonic discursive logic of postdictatorial memory—­concealing fissures in the narrative of resistance to the military regime and producing specific subjects of memory and human rights that inclusively exclude nonheroes and nonvictims in both the past and the present. One of the prominent symbolic figures portrayed in ADNB’s images and texts is the student, constructed through a narrative that conflates youth and political militancy to produce an exclusionary notion of

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heroic resistance to the dictatorship through street protests, sit-​ins, and physical encounters with police forces. The fused figure of the youth/ student presented in the exhibit is predominately white, male, and connected with university organizations such as the National Union of Students (União Nacional de Estudantes, UNE) and the Central Student Directorate (Diretório Central de Estudantes, DCE), echoing Victoria Langland’s contention that “authentic student activism itself was sometimes presented as a masculine endeavor.”18 For example, the image that graces the front cover of the ADNB exhibit guide shows three young men of a certain university, middle-​class aesthetic jumping in the air and thrusting their arms in a celebratory motion with other people in the background, giving the impression of a successful student action against the regime. This conveys the message that the “true” memory of the dictatorship can be found in the adventure-​like visual narrative of student protestors battling the repression of the military, presenting these protestors as heroic subjects of human rights and memory while eclipsing the experiences of the marginalized subjects of economic and social rights in whose name they were acting. This is particularly evident in the conflation of student with youth in the exhibit, which paradoxically lays bare distinctions of class, race, and political involvement that determine who or what is visible in the curators’ nostalgic representation of student militancy. For example, the largest panel in the exhibit includes multiple images depicting civilian resistance to dictatorship, including mass protests and marches, warlike encounters in public spaces, and students detained by military personnel. Written in red within the blackened outline of a protesting student superimposed on the images is a description: “Being a Student was a dangerous profession. In 64, 67, 68, 77, 78, and 84 they participated in marches, protest rallies, and clandestine meetings. They resisted and cried out for freedom on campuses, and in the streets.”19 This reiterates the idealized figure of the student participating in sit-​ins and street protests and heroically battling the military. The information that accompanies this part of the exhibit includes a description of the March 1968 shooting of Edson Luis Lima Souto by military police in front of the Calabouço restaurant in Rio de Janeiro. ADNB presents the death of Lima Souto,20 a high school student described as a poor immigrant from northeastern Brazil who was not active in political militancy,21 as the impetus for multiple protests criticizing the indiscriminate violence of the military.22 At the time, newspapers ran a powerful image of Lima Souto’s lifeless body on a

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table in the Legislative Assembly, surrounded by students who refused to give up the body out of fear that the military would falsify the coroner’s report. Yet instead of including this readily available image, ADNB curators visually displace Lima Souto with photos of graffiti related to the military occupation of Calabouço and a multitude of students challenging the dictatorship.23 This not only reproduces the idealized narrative of resistance that Avelar criticizes for inviting “specular, unreflective identification and preclud[ing] the possibility of asking questions about the nature of the experience,”24 but it also exemplifies the appropriation of an anonymous subject of the political as a symbolic martyr within this narrative. Victoria Langland has emphasized how little was known about Lima Souto prior to his death, as his family remained in Pará. Fellow students knew little about him, and even newspapers and DEOPS agents could dig up little information on him as he was not a political militant. “In death Edson Luis became a household name, but the person Edson Luis remained an enigma, and his name and photographed corpse became symbols of dictatorial repression against innocent students.”25 By visually repeating this erasure and appropriation of Lima Souto as a symbolic student, youth, and victim of repression, ADNB curators do not “rescue” an obscure figure of the past. Instead, Edson Luis Lima Souto signifies the resistance of politically engaged university students against the military, while the life and death of a poor seventeen-​year-​old migrant from the Brazilian Northeast, a nonsubject of nunca mais, remain invisible. Another prominent image included on this panel shows a group of soldiers sitting on a transport vehicle with their rifles under a cinema marquee that reads “a noite dos generais [The Night of the Generals].”26 The outline of a solider wielding a baton is superimposed on the image, and Chico Buarque’s famous lyrics, “Apesar de você amanhã há de ser outro dia [In spite of you, tomorrow will be another day],” are inscribed in red on the figure. Some of the soldiers stare directly into the camera, evoking themes of visibility, male gaze, and power that recall Diana Taylor’s arguments on the performance of the military during the dictatorship in Argentina.27 Yet this image also provocatively inserts into the discourse of student/youth resistance questions of race and class that are often elided from memory narratives about dictatorship. The soldiers in the image, many of Afro-​Brazilian descent, contrast sharply with the light-​skinned university figures that symbolize student/ youth in the rest of the exhibit. The prominent placement of this image

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to portray the “enemy” of the students points toward the absence of young Brazilians who did not participate in unions or protests from the exhibit’s construction of “student.”28 The soldiers in the image appear to be of the same age as many of those chosen to represent student/ youth, and they may have entered into military service because it was the best option available based on their socioeconomic or educational background and not necessarily because they agreed with the ideological tenets of the dictatorial government. In other words, many soldiers who are presented as the “enemy” by ADNB are representative of the very povo that the student movement was supposedly fighting to protect. Yet the nostalgic representation of heroic students challenging the repression of the dictatorship does not provide space for the critical reconsideration of these complex issues, which do not fit neatly into the narrative of resistance articulated by the exhibit. A second mythic figure presented in ADNB involves the musicians and artists who spoke out against the censorship and repression of the dictatorship through cultural production and participation in public marches such as the Passeata dos 100 Mil. The exhibit included a large panel of images of iconic artists who represent resistance to the military dictatorship in the late 1960s, most notably Cinema Novo director Glauber Rocha, playwright Plínio Marcos, actress Cacîlda Becker, and musicians Chico Buarque, Caetano Veloso, and Gilberto Gil. A phrase written in red on top of the panel states, “Time of censorship, of silent voices, of phrases left unsaid, and if written, not read.”29 The inclusion of images of individuals connected to the esquerda engajada (engaged Left), such as Rocha, Marcos, and to a lesser extent, Buarque, reflects the curators’ intent to present these cultural figures as an important element in combating the repression of the military. Yet the contributions of artists and musicians speaking out against the dictatorship is a narrative that has already been firmly established in the Brazilian social imaginary, and the focus on famous cultural figures belies the exhibit’s supposed goal of rescuing silenced memories and truth about dictatorship. This panel in fact reproduces an idealized memory narrative of artists united in resisting the military regime, while continuing to exclude nonheroic, nonvictimized subjects. The panel also conflates the work of such artists as Chico Buarque, Caetano Veloso, and Gilberto Gil as promoting the same type of social project through their music. The photographs of the three musicians on the panel present a canonized representation of youthful musicians performing at televised music festivals in the late 1960s. This

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image has been engrained in the collective consciousness of Brazilians through the media and other cultural production about dictatorship—­of Música Popular Brasileira (MPB) artists united in challenging the military regime. Yet, as cultural critics Christopher Dunn (2001) and Flora Süssekind (1985) have demonstrated, Tropicália artists such as Gil and Veloso in fact strongly criticized the esquerda engajada for being just as politically and culturally rigid as the military regime. The disruption of all authoritarian structures by Tropicália artists, their transgression of traditional social roles of gender and sexuality in their performances, and Gil’s later participation in the Black Power and negritude movements are important contributions to the democratic opening in Brazil that are excluded by the ADNB exhibit.30 This is indicative of the overall narrative of the installation, which highlights the activities of traditional leftist political parties resisting the military regime while ignoring the contributions of other movements (e.g., feminist, gay, black power, etc.) to the social and political opening in Brazilian society near the end of dictatorship. The reiteration of politically engaged “protest” artists challenging the repression of the dictatorship excludes cultural production that disrupted social structures in ways distinct from the typical counternarrative of postdictatorship. A third antidictatorial symbol offered by ADNB is that of the worker, a figure often idealized and appropriated in competing narratives of nation by both the military regime and the organized Left during the dictatorship. The exhibit includes examples of the military government’s propaganda campaign, which appropriates workers in its narrative of social and economic progress through the milagre brasileiro and development projects throughout the country. The words printed on top of each image, “Você constrói o Brasil [You Build Brazil],” are accompanied by images of field hands working in a rural area, workers constructing a new factory, and modern equipment being used to clear an undeveloped section of forest to make way for the Transamazônica Highway. These images directly appealed to Brazilians of the time, asking them to contribute to the “progress” and “modernization” essential to the military regime’s vision of national identity, and served to justify its repressive measures, implying that only an authoritarian government could effectively construct the Brazil of the future. However, while the ADNB strongly criticizes the military regime’s appropriation of the worker, the curators continue the mythic representation of the worker articulated by the organized Left during the dictatorship, primarily exemplified through labor unions.

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The most common example concerns the metalúrgicos (metalworkers), who appear numerous times in the images and texts of the exhibit and are presented as heroes at the forefront of the battle against the dictatorship’s repression. An emblematic panel consists of a large photograph of thousands of members of a metalworker union inside a stadium affirming an issue being raised by the most prominent figure in the photograph, former Brazilian president Luíz Inácio Lula da Silva. The text superimposed on the image reads, “Metalworkers went on strike in 1978, announcing the beginning of the end of the dictatorship. Strikes throughout the country defied the laws imposed by the military regime.”31 Lula was indeed the president of the powerful metalworkers syndicate in the ABC region of São Paulo, which played a major role in the political opening near the end of the dictatorship. However, placing the former president in the center of the visual representation of the many strikes of organized labor that signaled “the beginning of the end” of the dictatorship constitutes a not-​so-​subtle attempt to further establish his place as a foundational figure in Brazilian history. The entire Direito à Memória e à Verdade project was an initiative of the special human rights commission that Lula helped establish.32 Yet, instead of including images focused on unknown metalúrgicos or other striking organizations in an attempt to trace silenced experiences of the dictatorship, the curators offer a timeless image of Lula as a symbol of the worker. This augments the invisibility of laborers who did not share the political militancy and organizational power of the metalúrgicos, such as nonunion workers, ranch hands, or small farmers in rural Brazil. The exhibit portrays all members of syndicates as having the same political or ideological goals as the union leaders, when many may have participated in strikes to improve their specific working conditions and not in the name of an ideological militant resistance to the military regime. The ADNB exhibit also presents an idealized representation of armed militant organizations and their actions against the military regime, rearticulating their original intent of social revolution within what Marcelo Ridenti has referred to as “the ideology of democratic resistance,”33 which “attributes the return to democracy in Brazil  .  .  . in part to the heroic struggle of the armed lefts.”34 This is best exemplified through the inclusion of an iconic image of members of the MR-​8 and the ALN35 in front of an airplane prior to their exile from Brazil after having successfully kidnapped US ambassador Charles Burke Elbrick in early September 1969. This was the most famous action undertaken by armed leftist organizations during the dictatorship in

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Brazil, and was the subject of Fernando Gabeira’s widely read testimonial novel O que é isso companheiro. The description under the image poetically reads, “Resistance, Resisters, Organizations of the left picked up arms to battle the dictatorship. Urban guerillas, Araguaia. The dead and the disappeared, the internal and external exiles, those in hiding.”36 Another image focuses on the death of ALN leader Carlos Marighella, whose lifeless body is shown lying behind a bullet-​ridden windshield after being killed in the streets of São Paulo by police forces. The visual focus on the experiences of two of the most famous members of armed guerrilhas and the description lauding the acts of armed resistance to the dictatorship by “organizations of the left” further cements the visibility of these groups as the heroic/victimized subjects of memory and human rights, again displacing the subjects of social and economic rights who do not count as heroes or victims in postdictatorial culture. This idealized narrative of resistance elides the criticism in Gabeira’s memoir, which, despite a narrative that often “reads like an adventure novel,”37 constitutes an initial self-​critique of the armed Left for participating in the same logic of war as the military regime. In an attempt to present the actions of armed militant organizations as part of the democratic resistance to dictatorship, the ADNB obscures the undemocratic tenor of their platform and practices, the authoritarian organizational structure of these groups, and the violent acts committed by armed revolutionaries.38 These activities are either excluded from the narrative of the exhibit or have been rearticulated in an “ideology of democratic resistance” that omits the fact that “the armed lefts never proposed a mere return to democracy in the mold of pre-​1964, nor something along the lines of the institutionalization that would be formed in Brazil after the end of the dictatorship.”39 The result not only eradicates from postdictatorial discourse the radical politics of social and economic justice that guided the actions of the armed organizations, but also erases the heterogeneity of the very notion of resistance during dictatorship. The conflation of the armed-​lefts who sought social revolution with the activities of students, workers, and artists, as well as other organizations associated with democratic resistance to dictatorship, is carried through into a panel dedicated to the Diretas Já (Direct Elections) movement, a visible call for direct elections (and consequently the end of military rule) through public marches beginning in the early 1980s. The curators present this as the culmination of the genealogical narrative of resistance to the military regime in the name of democracy

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by students, artists, workers, left-​wing political parties, and revolutionaries during the dictatorship. The panel highlights two images, an overhead shot of a Diretas Já event in the Praça da Sé in São Paulo and a close-​up of some of the banners at the event, with “Diretas Já” written in white lettering across the center of the photographs. While the first image portrays the spectacle and scale of the event, showing thousands of people in the Praça da Sé with part of the São Paulo skyline in the background, the second image, focused on the banners held by a particular section of the crowd, exposes the curators’ intention of articulating a counterhistory of the dictatorship from the perspective of the organized Left. In the midst of this image are several banners of the Communist Party of Brazil (Partido Comunista do Brasil, PCdoB) bearing the iconic hammer and sickle and inscribed with such phrases as “Long live the unity of the people [Viva a unidade do povo]” and “Diretas Já!” The photograph even includes a banner from MR-​8, which implicitly continues the idealized narrative about armed revolutionary organizations.40 By choosing to amplify this section of the crowd, the exhibit suggests that traditional leftist organizations such as the PCdoB were the primary force behind the Diretas Já movement, and that their activism led to direct presidential elections and the end of the dictatorship. This occludes the fact that at this moment the influence of traditional leftist parties had waned, and the Diretas Já movement was primarily directed by the Brazilian Democratic Movement Party (Partido do Movimento Democrático Brasileiro) and the Worker’s Party (Partido dos Trabalhadores).41 In this way, the exhibit presents the Diretas Já movement as the culmination of heroic resistance to the dictatorship by the traditional political organizations and armed guerrilhas of the Left, constructing a teleological connection between political militancy and the establishment of democracy. This narrative of Diretas Já as foundational to redemocratization in Brazil does not provide space to think critically about the transition from the military regime to a democratically elected government, or what Jorge Zaverucha calls a “managed democracy [democracia tutelada].”42 It also obscures the fact that while the enormous public events calling for direct democratic elections provided an impressive spectacle of popular participation in calling for the end of the military dictatorship, the Diretas Já movement actually failed. Tancredo Neves was elected president in 1984 through the indirect elections favored by the outgoing military government and other sectors of society, such as the conservative segment of the church. By

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portraying the Diretas Já movement as a mythic symbol of the consolidation of democracy and the end of military dictatorship, the ADNB exhibit elides the role of the military in controlling the transition and obscures the fact that the new conciliatory political democracy ultimately served to affirm economic and social policies enacted during military rule. As I have suggested (in line with the work of such scholars as Reis Filho and Ridenti), this was accompanied by the transition to a depoliticized narrative of resistance in the name of democracy by the militant Left and the insertion of their own experiences as the heroic/victimized subjects of state violence in place of the subjects of economic and social rights in whose name they originally acted. This narrative transition is visible throughout the ADNB exhibit, highlighting the discursive power of the turn to liberal humanitarianism through the notion of nunca mais nearly thirty years earlier. The exhibit offers factual information about the experiences of those who were killed, tortured, or disappeared during the dictatorship, echoing the original charge of the Direito à Memória è a Verdade project. Many texts that accompany the photographs focus on state violence committed against members of such groups as the Brazilian Communist Party (Partido Comunista Brasileiro; PCB), the UNE, and the PCdoB. This is not surprising, given that the majority of people who were tortured and killed by the military regime were indeed members of the organized Left. However, the curators articulate these experiences through an idealized and exclusionary spectacle of resistance to the dictatorship. For example, Manoel Fiel Filho, a metalúrgico and rank-​and-​file member of the PCB,43 was tortured and killed in São Paulo in 1976. In the exhibit text, Filho’s death is presented as an important event that provoked mass protests and led to the ouster of the commander at the Second Army (II Exército) base in São Paulo. Yet the curators visually displace Filho in favor of an homage to journalist and PCB member Vladimir Herzog, whose death under torture a few months earlier was the most publicized act of state violence committed during the dictatorship. Herzog’s image is inserted in a saintly way above a large photograph of religious figures bowing their heads during a memorial service at the Catedral da Sé in São Paulo—­a martyr invoked as a symbol of hero/ victim of resistance to the dictatorship.44 The text overlaid on the image notes the immediate challenge of the official version of “Vlado’s” death as a suicide and explains that the service was “transformed into a public act of protest, with the participation of more than ten thousand people,”45 guiding spectators to photographs of the protest on the next

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panel. ADNB thus visually transforms the meaning of Herzog’s image from death and suffering to a celebration of multitudinous public protest, barely halting the narrative of resistance for spectators to reflect upon Herzog’s torture and murder by the military regime. Here, then, we note a double erasure in ADNB: the torture and murder of a nonheroic subject (Filho) is visually displaced in favor of a victim (Herzog) who has always been visible within the discourse of nunca mais; and the experiences of both are appropriated in a narrative of resistance to the military regime that is always already grafted upon the activities of the organized Left. In his written introduction to the exhibit, then minister of human rights Paulo Vanucchi explained that ADNB was to be displayed in cities throughout Brazil beginning in 2008 in commemoration of the sixtieth anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This signals an intent to connect the exhibit to the theme of human rights in the present and not solely articulate a counterhistory of the dictatorship. Vanucchi describes the exhibit as taking the public on a visual trip through time, placing spectators into the events of the military dictatorship through large photographic panels that recuperate the memory of major events of this period. He concludes by echoing the language of the CEMDP report: “Only by possessing this knowledge will the country be able to build effective structures to ensure that these human rights violations never happen again.”46 While the goal of recuperating and disseminating information about military dictatorship to ensure that these human rights violations are never repeated is laudable, it is important to consider how the ADNB exhibit constructs the meaning of human rights and who it defines as the subjects of this discourse. The exhibit highlights the activities of leftist organizations of the period, particularly well-​known political and cultural figures, and fuses memory and human rights to produce specific notions of political subjectivity at the center of these categories. The rhetoric of nunca mais articulated in the exhibit through an idealized narrative of heroic resistance by the Brazilian Left does not constitute an effective tool to prevent further human rights violations. This exclusionary narrative keeps nonheroes and nonvictims invisible within the concepts of memory and human rights, in both the past and the present, and belies the exhibit’s stated goal of recuperating the experiences of “obscuros personagens” in postdictatorship. This same issue remains in the present long-​term exhibit of the Memorial da Resistência, installed on January 24, 2009.

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Lembrar é Resistir? Memory, Human Rights, and Subjectivity at the Memorial da Resistência The mission statement of the Memorial da Resistência immediately establishes a link between memory and human rights: “The Memorial da Resistência of São Paulo has as its mission the research, protection, and communication of references to the memories of political resistance and repression from the Brazilian republican period . . . in order to contribute to the critical reflection on the contemporary history of the country and the valorization of democratic principles, the practice of citizenship, and the awareness of human rights.”47 São Paulo governor José Serra echoed these sentiments during the 2009 inauguration of MDR, commenting that knowledge of the past will contribute an “awareness about human rights and the valorization of democratic principles in contemporary Brazil.”48 The rhetoric of nunca mais was repeated by others involved in the inauguration, such as the minister of culture for the State of São Paulo, João Sayad: “The Memorial da Resistência serves an essential function: preventing forgetting so that the atrocities of the dictatorship and the disrespect for human rights are never again repeated.”49 These comments exemplify the ethical fusion of memory and human rights through acritical repetition of nunca mais. Once again, the narrative is articulated through a discourse of nation and citizenship, determinant factors as to who counts as the subjects of human rights. We also note the narrative transition to resistance in the name of both democracy and human rights against a state that oppressed the population, intimating the continued focus on liberal notions of human rights that was established in Brasil: Nunca mais in 1985. In the present long-​term exhibit at the MDR concepts of human rights, memory, and democracy are again conflated—­always already grafted upon political subjects who were tortured, killed, or imprisoned while resisting the military regime. This sutures who or what is visible as subjects of memory and victims of human rights violations, a problematic gesture for a cultural space seeking to promote commitment to human rights culture in the present. Whereas articulating the experiences of those who suffered at the hands of DEOPS personnel and seeking to use their testimony to obtain justice for state violence fulfills the first piece of the MDR mission, the way these experiences are narrativized in relation to human rights and democracy is problematic. The long-​term exhibit at the Memorial da Resistência ultimately repeats the turn to civil and

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political rights inscribed in the notion of “never again” and negates the processes of political subjectivation that are possible within the paradoxical relationship between memory and human rights. The present iteration of the MDR is identified by banners on the front façade of the Estação Pinacoteca, and a panel explaining the history of the space and its use by DEOPS hangs at the rear entrance. A glass door marking the entrance to the Memorial on the bottom floor of the building is adorned with a logo consisting of three vertical lines that traverse three horizontal lines, evoking both a prison cell grate and the #hashtag used in social media. This symbol appears on all publication materials related to the Memorial, as well as its website, Facebook page, Twitter handle, t-​shirts, tote bags, and other objects, reflective of a marketing strategy to spread knowledge about the MDR. Upon entering, visitors pass through a hall with a large panel providing an outline of the goals and activities of the Memorial (e.g., reference center, collection of testimonials, space for long-​term and temporary exhibits, educational activities and tours). Next to this panel is a small room with a window inscribed with the words “As long as we remember, everything is possible [Enquanto lembrarmos tudo é possível]”—­echoing the words on a panel at the entrance to the room: Lembrar é resistir. This reference to the aforementioned theatrical production appears throughout MDR materials, functioning as a slogan that parallels the discourse of nunca mais—­memory equals human rights—­while adding the notion that memory also equals resistance to any attempt to undo democracy and the valorization of human rights. On one side of this room is a panel titled “The Building and Its Memories [O edifício e suas memórias],” which provides information on the building’s history superimposed on enlarged images from public archives collected in collaboration between the state of São Paulo and USP. In the center of the room is a bench where visitors can view a video about the history of DEOPS and its role as the official arm of political repression in Brazil. Across from this is the Reference Center, which occupies the space that previously held information on political dissidents collected by DEOPS personnel. The room now contains computers where visitors can pursue further research on DEOPS archives and information on MDR’s membership in the International Coalition of Sites of Consciousness, dedicated to preserving places where human rights violations occurred and connecting these experiences with present-​day issues of social justice. This part of the Memorial attempts to connect the memory of those who resisted and were imprisoned or

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tortured in DEOPS with present-​day notions of resistance in the name of “solidarity, democratic principles, and respect for difference.”50 Yet, as we have seen, the contingent nature of this relationship between memory and human rights is precisely what is at stake in cultural centers such as MDR—­how exactly to articulate this connection with the “atrocities” of the past without foreclosing who or what appears as the political subjects of solidarity and democracy in the present. Visitors then enter the long-​term exhibit of the Memorial, which draws from the DEOPS archives and testimonies of former political prisoners during the military dictatorship to articulate a narrative of Brazilian history through the concepts of control, repression, and resistance. The installation uses touch-​screen monitors to access digital images of hundreds of DEOPS documents, a historical timeline highlighting moments of resistance to state repression, and exhibits focusing on the experiences of political prisoners in the four renovated DEOPS cells and hallways of the space. Notably, curators seek to “ensure—­as systematic practice—­the inclusion of broad panels about the practices of repression and the actions of groups of resistance during authoritarian and military regimes, as well as democratic ones.”51 The articulation of these themes beyond the context of the most recent military regime appears to create the conditions of possibility for the critical examination of varied subjects of human rights and alternative notions of resistance in ways that exceed the focus on a countermemory of dictatorship. However, the narrative of the long-​term exhibit ultimately constructs an exclusionary notion of political subjectivity centered on the esquerda engajada—­just like the ADNB exhibit—­whose actions are presented through a discourse of heroic resistance to state repression throughout Brazilian history. This is evident in the images and texts presented in the most information-​heavy part of the Memorial, a large room containing the two touch-​ screen computers with digital images of DEOPS documents and a large timeline highlighting important moments of control, repression, and resistance throughout Brazilian history. The installation is placed on a wall displaying blown-​up images that visually convey the themes of repression and resistance articulated by the exhibit. The touch screens reflect the excellent funding the MDR has as part of the Pinacoteca do Estado, with resources to install high-​tech audiovisual exhibits that offer an interactive way to engage with historical archives, especially for younger generations of middle-​and upper-​class Brazilians whose lives revolve around smartfones. Spectators are able to

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tap their way through the DEOPS archives and virtually connect the past with the present. The fact that this exhibit is controlled by software allows curators to add new materials from the DEOPS archive or change the aesthetic presentation of the documents without needing to dismantle or rework the entire installation. The touch-​ screen exhibit is organized into the three main categories of Controle, Repressão, and Resistência, which articulate a Foucault-​ inflected narrative of surveillance and power of the state throughout Brazilian history. Materials from both the Vargas dictatorship and the military dictatorship are digitally presented, focusing on the experiences of subjects associated with traditional leftist political organizations under such subcategories as “Political Surveillance” (Vigilância política), “Political Crimes” (Crime político), and “Institutionalized Political Repression” (Repressão política institucionalizada). Hundreds of images and documents depict different types of state repression of political subjects, such as censorship, prison, torture, exile, disappearance, and extermination. The images that accompany these texts include cadavers of those killed by the military, gatherings where DEOPS personnel noted the identity and political affiliation of the participants, books and newspapers that were censored, and the infamous “wanted” posters accusing dissidents of being “terrorists” or “subversives.” The section on resistance focuses on the tactics used by political activists to challenge the authoritarian government, such as underground propaganda, cultural works, mass protests, and armed militancy. The material presented in this section includes flyers criticizing the military government, images of street protests and union strikes, examples of visual art that either critique the violence and censorship of the dictatorship or evoke notions of revolution, and images of members of armed guerrilha groups being detained or exiled by military personnel. The experience of interacting with DEOPS archives on the touch screens contrasts with the timeline that dominates the rest of the room, which highlights examples of repression and resistance at specific moments in Brazilian history. The timeline begins with the establishment of Brazilian nationhood in 1889 and continues to 2008, when the Memorial da Resistência was inaugurated. It includes events like the infamous massacre in Canudos and other examples of state violence, such as the so-​called Guerra do Contestado; the repression of unions, anarchists, and communist and socialist political parties throughout the twentieth century; strikes, protests, and revolts by these groups

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during this time; the Vargas and military dictatorships and examples of resistance to these authoritarian governments, and more recent acts of state violence against the poor, indigenous populations, residents of favelas, and prisoners. A text introducing the timeline notes that “we present a panorama structured through ruptures and continuities of political time in republican Brazil . . . different processes of control and repression, as well as reactions of resistance.”52 Curators call on visitors to participate as “citizens” in “expanding our collective memory”53 by sending information on events that are not included in the exhibit. This echoes the primary goals of the long-​term MDR exhibit and provides the opportunity to examine the exhibit’s focus on different moments of repression and resistance, all of which are now included in the national history of Brazil. The ideal of a participatory citizenship in democracy is clearly articulated, inviting visitors to suggest alternative or excluded moments of repression and resistance in the collective construction of national history. The curators attempt to rescue acts of resistance (primarily associated with traditional left political organizations) within the narrative of the Brazilian citizenship, which challenges the historical discourse articulated by the Vargas regime and the military dictatorship that referred to these social actors as “foreign” and “subversive” to the consensus of Brazilian identity consecrated throughout history. As Tucci Carneiro explains, echoing the arguments of Caldeira and Holston, the timeline is intended to show how “ideological strategies of social exclusion”54 are in fact foundational to the Brazilian Republic, beginning with “prejudices inherited from colonialism and Monarchy.”55 Though perhaps a bit cumbersome for the average visitor to fully take in, the conceptualization of control, repression, and resistance presented in the timeline, with roots in colonialism and monarchy, extends the narrative of the Memorial beyond focusing solely on the golpe of the military dictatorship. This is seen through the inclusion of more recent examples of state repression, such as the 1992 massacre of inmates at Carandiru prison and the actions of such groups as the Landless Movement (Movimento Sem Terra, MST), which appear to make a connection to economic/social justice issues in the democratic present with nonvisible subjects of human rights at the center. However, while the documents and images in the timeline and touch-​ screen exhibits are undoubtedly important to spreading knowledge about state violence throughout Brazilian history, they also produce a specific notion of who can be considered resistant subjects to the

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state. The use of DEOPS archives to articulate a lineage of political resistance in Brazil, even one that rescues “forgotten” experiences of dissent, ultimately constructs a narrative in which “strategies of critical clash are replaced by those of testimony, archive, and documentation, processes seeking to give us a new perception of the traces of our history and the signs of our community.”56 The timeline and the touch-​ screen exhibits fuse the concepts of memory and human rights under a consensual understanding of political subjects in democracy, suggesting that knowledge of these moments of repression and resistance in the past will lead to a dedication to human rights culture in the present. The information conveyed by the touch screen focuses solely on the experiences of those connected with traditional leftist organizations during the dictatorship articulated through a narrative of counterhegemonic resistance to the military. The timeline continues this discourse of political subjectivity, as the more recent acts of repression/resistance presented (MST, Carandiru, etc.) are not included as ruptures in the perceptions of political subjects or criticisms of liberal notions of civil and political human rights, but rather as part of a teleological narrative of progress culminating in inclusive categories of citizenship and democracy in the present. The collective “we” (“our history”; “our collective memory”) presented by the curators creates an ethical community in the Rancierean sense,57 where the part of those with no part is appropriated in an idealized notion of resistant subjects articulated by the exhibit. In this way, the normalized distribution of the sensible related to postdictatorial memory and the discourse of human rights is repeated, and nonvisible subjects of economic and social rights—­such as those inhabiting the very neighborhood where the MDR is located—­ remain invisible in both the past and the present. Moving from the large room containing the timeline and touch-​ screen exhibits, visitors pass a hallway leading to the outdoor space that prisoners were allowed to use for one hour per week, inscribed with a quote noting that at the end of the hallway there was a “guard with a gun.”58 This again evokes Foucault’s notions of surveillance and control, suggesting that the visibility of the detained body and the mere threat that the guard was watching served to regulate human actions. Visitors walk through the renovated hallway to the outdoor area, which is covered by metal grates above and hemmed in by the grates on each of the cell windows. The space contains two mirrors, one on the left and another at the end of the passageway, and visitors see themselves reflected in the enclosed area as they reflect upon the experiences of

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Figure 1. Memorial da Resistência (MDR), 2013. Author photo.

prisoners. A second quote appears along the outside wall (figure 1), further guiding one’s engagement with the effects of the panoptic repression enacted on the prisoners while walking through the space in the present: “The visit to the hallway was once a week, for one hour, one cell at a time. But not everyone came.”59 This leaves the impression that some prisoners didn’t even bother to walk outside during this weekly ritual, having resigned themselves to their state of captivity, the power exercised over their bodies by DEOPS personnel, and the false sense of hope that an hour of fresh air could bring to their experience. From here one encounters the four refurbished cells of the Memorial, each containing a different exhibit designed and installed by curators and former political prisoners detained in DEOPS. MDR educators remind visitors that the intent is not to show exactly what these cells were like nor to lead spectators through a museum of horrors as a way to present the experience of imprisonment. Recognizing the multiple changes that the cells had undergone prior to 2008, the curators include a description of these modifications in the exhibit and offer details on the recent work done to the four remaining cells. This is

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revealed to visitors in a series of panels in the first cell, along with short quotes related to daily life in DEOPS from the former prisoners who participated in the renovation. This has an interesting effect, as it unmasks the museological process by demonstrating that while the information presented is true (i.e., human beings were imprisoned, tortured, and killed in this space), the way these facts are represented is constructed with certain goals in mind through a particular narrative of cultural politics in the present. This is clear in the third cell, which offers an interpretative “reconstitution” by former political prisoners intended to make visitors contemplate what it was like in the space without replicating the traumas experienced. Particularly interesting are the inscriptions on the wall, which were reproduced by the former prisoners, including new etchings related to the Vargas dictatorship and others that evoke prisoners disappeared during the military regime. The curators present the act of reconstituting the inscriptions as a collective act of solidarity, memory, and thinking through trauma—­with all its contradictions and gaps—­serving as a cathartic experience for the former prisoners who chose to participate in the project. This individual/collective memory act is repeated in the fourth renovated cell, where headphones play testimonies of political prisoners in DEOPS. Visitors sit on benches and listen to the ex-​presos discuss their experiences, while seeing the reactions of fellow visitors. In the center of the room stands a single red carnation with a light majestically shining on it, in an attempt to create a space for meditation and reflection that the curators explain as a gesture of solidarity learned from the stories of the political prisoners, tracing the fine line “between the horrors of repression and torture and the display of affection and complicity between those who had been denied their basic rights.”60 Yet, again, while visitors bear witness to the testimonies of those who are able to speak about the violation of basic rights during the dictatorship, it is their position as former political prisoners that allows their experiences to enter into the narrative of repression by and resistance to state violence. The rights of political subjects in postdictatorship were not questioned by the Brazilian population at large, but, as Teresa Caldeira reminds us, “human rights were contested only when they were associated with nonpolitical prisoners.”61 These nonpolitical subjects remain invisible in the long-​term exhibit at MDR, which holds up former political prisoners as the ethical subjects of both human rights and memory in postdictatorship, those who count within both of these concepts.

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This is further demonstrated through the installation in the second cell, a short film titled Memorial da Resistência. The film, projected onto a semitransparent glass panel hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, focuses on “four Brazilian citizens who lost their lives in different contexts of resistance to the military dictatorship”62—­ Olavo Hansen, Eduardo Leite, Devanir Carvalho, and Luiz Hirata. The film does not use a narrative voice-​over but instead relies on images of DEOPS documents to relay information on the surveillance of these individuals (e.g., “subversive,” “terrorist,” “element of the left”) and their murder at the hands of the military (e.g., “dead,” “executed,” “deceased”). The video also incorporates images of state-​ issued ID cards, official death certificates, and the DEOPS file cabinets containing information on each subject, with smatterings of blood digitally overlaid at several points in the film to call attention to their murder by the state. The audio track of a typewriter signaling the documentation being done by DEOPS personnel, interrupted with odd sound effects that mark the sudden cuts and visual transitions in the film, produces a sense of uneasiness. This aesthetic use of juridical documentation reflects the type of critical art that Rancière argues “conflates the logic of aesthetic separation and the pedagogical logics of representational mediation and ethical immediacy,”63 ultimately producing an erasure of both political and aesthetic dissensus. In other words, instead of problematizing the rhetoric of heroes/victims of resistance and creating a space for previously invisible subjects to appear in notions of memory and human rights, the film again charges spectators with the ethical task of bearing witness to past state violence via political subjects who are always already visible in postdictatorial discourse.64 The intent, as with other pieces of the long-​term exhibit, is to rescue the actions of the organized Left as participatory citizens in the concept of nation, rejecting the label “subversive,” which was applied to anyone associated with real or perceived left-​leaning political activity during this time period. While this counternarrative is important in challenging the memory discourses articulated by the military regime and its supporters, the focus on militant political subjects belies the quote at the end of the film: “This room is an homage to those who fought and fight imbued with the ideals of justice and democracy.”65 The subjects presented (male, politically active students, Communist Party activists, members of armed revolutionary organizations) are already visible in counterhegemonic memory narratives about dictatorship, reiterating the dominant understanding of political subjectivity

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while inclusively excluding nonvictimized and nonheroic subjects of human rights. The idealized narrative of resistance is augmented by the opening incantation of Geraldo Vandré’s iconic protest song “Pra não dizer que não falei das flores [So they don’t say I never spoke of flowers]”66—­“aaahahahaaaaaah, aaahaaahaaahaaa!”—­which emanates from an audiovisual exhibit (“Do lado de fora deste edifício: Outras memórias” [Outside of this Building: Other Memories], located in a cubby directly across from the cell). Vandré’s now nostalgic anthem of the esquerda engajada echoes throughout this part of the Memorial, framing interactions with the installations in the cells and amplifying the discursive logic of militant resistance to state repression presented in the film. This ironically constructs a closed notion of political subjectivity in the distribution of the concepts of justice and democracy to which the exhibit supposedly pays homage, articulated through the ethical suture of memory and human rights via the concept of nunca mais. While the current long-​term exhibit of the Memorial da Resistência presents facts surrounding acts of detention, torture, and murder committed by DEOPS personnel, they are articulated through an “epic of resistance” by political militants fighting the repression of the military regime that ultimately negates the possibility of critically engaging the experiences of the dictatorial past and its effects on the present. The exhibit constructs an exclusionary notion of political subjectivity specific to the experiences of the esquerda engajada, who today have the capacity to narrate their experiences in social discourse via cultural production or attempted juridical action against military personnel. This prevents alternative notions of resistance, the political, and justice from being inserted in this narrative—­experiences of nonvictims and nonheroes that are appropriated in the rhetoric of nunca mais while remaining invisible in the discourse of repression and resistance. The fusion of memory and human rights in the long-​term exhibit of the Memorial reflects Rancière’s critique of the current ethical task of art as bearing witness to past catastrophe, placing the figures of those engaged in political militancy against the dictatorship as the primary subjects of human rights discourse while excluding those subjects of economic and social rights in whose name they acted. While these individuals were unquestionably victims of human rights violations, the idealized narrative of resistance sutures the tension between politics and aesthetics that maintains political subjectivities as “open predicates” and prevents nonsubjects of memory and human rights from appearing in both the past and the present.

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Temporary Exhibits and Dissensual Subjects of Postdictatorship It is through the temporary installations at the Memorial da Resistência that one can explore the tensions between politics/aesthetics and memory/human rights, where dissensual cuts appear within dominant notions of political subjectivity.67 The temporary exhibit space is physically located between the long-​term exhibit of the Memorial and the contemporary art museum that occupies the rest of the Estação Pinacoteca. In this way, the short-​term installations function as an interregnum between the archive-​based long-​term exhibit and the aesthetic pieces of the art museum, inhabiting “the very tension by which a politics of art and a poetics of politics tend towards each other . . . opposing the ethical confusion which tends to be imposed in the name of resistance, under the name of resistance.”68 The placement of the temporary exhibit space both occupies and performs the inherent tension between aesthetics and politics, exploring the limits of each within the relationship between memory and human rights. The temporary installations in the MDR are presented in the institutionalized manner of an art exhibit, hung on the wall in protective frames or contained in glass display cases, with information cards indicating the artist, title, and date of the piece, and a security presence to ensure that visitors do not touch the works. Spectators thus interact with the short-​term works differently than they do with the touch screen, timeline, and reconstituted cells of the long-​term exhibit, as the aura of an art museum produced by the temporary exhibit space creates the expectation of a critical distance in the reception of the pieces. Yet the temporary installations all relate to the themes of the MDR in some way (e.g., memory, repression, resistance, citizenship), and thus engage notions of the political articulated by the curators in the long-​term exhibit.69 I close this chapter with a detailed analysis of a specific temporary installation at the MDR that offers a particularly poignant exploration of the relationship between politics, aesthetics, and postdictatorial subjectivity: Insurreições: Expressões plásticas nos presídios políticos de São Paulo (Insurrections: Artistic expressions in the political prisons of São Paulo).70 The exhibit was curated by Alípio Freire, an artist and former political prisoner who has been active at the MDR and in establishing the National Truth Commission in Brazil. Insurreições consists of paintings, drawings, writings, mixed-​ media pieces, and other materials produced in such political prisons as DEOPS, Carandiru, and

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Figure 2. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

Tiradentes during the military dictatorship. The exhibit is divided into sections that evoke various facets of the experience of political prisoners: drafts of novels and academic work, physical and mental suffering due to torture and incarceration, solidarity with fellow prisoners, and letters and drawings sent to friends and family (figure 2). The pieces vary in theme, presentation, and content—­from overt political critique articulated from the perspective of militantes in the PCB, PCdoB, and other political parties to personal reflections on imprisonment and its effects on familial relationships. There are items by well-​known cultural figures who began projects while detained in these spaces, such as Renato Tapajos’s novel Em câmara lenta (Carandiru), historian Jacob Gorender’s Escravismo Colonial (Colonial slavery; Tiradentes), and Augusto Boal’s Milagre no Brasil (Miracle in Brazil; Tiradentes). Some pieces were created by professional artists, such as Alípio Freire, Sérgio Sister, and Carlos Takaoka, while others were produced by prisoners who had no previous artistic training. The exhibit includes purses, shoes, bags, and other objects made by prisoners and then sold to provide financial support for families of the incarcerated.

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The institutional introduction to Insurreições, entitled “Resistance and Art [Resistência e arte],” maintains that the temporary exhibit space is a privileged location, “a space for memory dedicated to the preservation of political memories . . . sharing the space with an art museum.”71 For the curators, this makes the installation of Insurreições at the Memorial especially appropriate, in that it serves to connect these two dimensions through the need of human beings to express themselves artistically, even in the most dire situations, and thus “brings political resistance and artistic expression closer together.”72 This notion of approximation is key, as it places politics and aesthetics into dialogue within the normative rhetoric of postdictatorial memory and the discourse of human rights in the present without fusing them to produce a singular ethical subject of resistance. The aesthetic presentation of Insurreições echoes the contemporary art exhibits on the floor above, while the overt political content of many pieces connects to the activism of the organized Left in Brazil articulated in the long-​term exhibit. This tension between aesthetics and politics allows us to critically examine the relationship between the past experiences of political prisoners with the means to produce pieces of art and a receptive audience ready to consume their work, and experiences of nonpolitical subjects who lack both the means and the collaborative audience to serve as “witness” to their experience. Insurreições does not negate the militancy of the artists—­many pieces explicitly express party affiliation or connections to armed movements—­ but the collection also offers personal reflections on their lives beyond political militancy, as well as alternative notions of resistance that are elided from the long-​term exhibit at the MDR. Works produced by such professional artists as Alípio Freire and Sérgio Sister are particularly provocative, as they articulate the tension between aesthetic creation and political militancy. Mixed-​media pieces in the exhibit by Freire and Sister explore both their personal experiences as prisoners in Presídio Tiradentes and the political environment in Brazil during the dictatorship. Sister’s Por ora nada além do óbvio (For now, nothing beyond the obvious; 1971) consists of a collage of materials and colors that form a distorted face and human figure made of papier-​mâché—­with references to the Brazilian flag, frayed shoestrings, and empty spools of thread placed on top of a newspaper (figure 3). The piece incorporates bumper stickers with common slogans articulated by the military regime and its supporters, such as “Brasil—­ame-​o ou deixe-​o [Brazil—­love it or leave it],” “Deus é brasileiro [God is Brazilian],” and “ontem hoje sempre [yesterday today

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Figure 3. Sérgio Sister, Por ora nada além do óbvio. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

always].” These phrases reflect the political climate outside the prison walls during the dictatorship, and given Sister’s militancy and status as a political prisoner, they satirize the rhetoric of nationalism offered by the military regime. This critique is augmented through the distorted and mournful human figures protruding from the piece, which point toward the physical and mental suffering that Sister and others underwent as political prisoners. In this sense, Sister uses collage to trace a “critical clash” between individual experiences and collective discourse about dictatorship, problematizing the notion of self-​evident representation of experience through archival or testimonial forms of visual culture. Freire’s mixed-​media work RPT-​P1-​X3 (1971) offers a similar critical juxtaposition of personal and collective reflections on the experience of political prisoners and Brazilian society during the dictatorship (figure 4). The upper right section contains a profile self-​portrait of the artist, with a large red X overlaid on the figure. Disembodied hands appear at the lower left, damaged and dripping with blood. The mixed-​media

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Figure 4. Alípio Freire, RPT-​P1-​X3. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

components appear between the two painted portions of the human figure, including a fragment of a wooden window frame containing a toothbrush and a small bottle, perhaps a reference to the contents of a medicine cabinet. The wooden piece, which protrudes off the painting, has bunched, frayed wires hanging from the corner toward the floor. Next to this Freire has placed an electrical circuit, evoking the shock torture to which prisoners were subjected during the dictatorship. Just below the framed cabinet is a target with a red dot at the center, which marks the center of the body of the painted human figure and connects with the blood coming from the hands. This piece explores Freire’s personal reflections on being tortured using the materials of the space where he was imprisoned to create an artistic expression related to that experience. The note explaining the title further establishes this spatial connection, explaining that RPT stands for “recolhimento de presos [roundup of prisoners] Tiradentes”; P1 for “Pavilhão [Ward] 1”; and x-​ 3 for “cela [cell] 3,” marking the exact location where Freire was held

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as a political prisoner during the dictatorship. Like Sister, Freire points toward sociopolitical realities outside the prison through the inclusion of a painted postal stamp, where one can surmise the artist’s attempt to communicate his experience to the world outside. Freire and Sister also have traditional framed paintings in the exhibit, which explore overt political militancy, their personal experiences of torture and imprisonment, and familial ties affected by their time in prison. For example, Freire’s Assassinato de Antônio Benetazzo (Murder of Antônio Benetazzo; 1972) depicts a bloody human figure with spears run through the body, painted in watercolor and overlaid on a playing card. The piece refers to the torture and murder of a specific political prisoner by military personnel at Tiradentes, to whom he inscribes, “Adeus, irmãozinho [Goodbye, my brother].” A fuga (The escape; 1973) evokes a more abstract notion of the impossibility of escaping either the physical confinement or the mental effects of being a political prisoner, with a human figure impaled upon the jagged edges of a partially destroyed prison window grate with blood dripping from the body. Sister’s 4o andar (4th floor) is a watercolor depicting the primary torture room in the former DEOPS building, located on the fourth floor, and includes a human-​like mask similar to the one in his mixed-​media piece. The painting alludes to torturers, victims, and an erupting volcano, evocative of the pain and suffering produced in the room and the torturers’ attempt to make the prisoners divulge information about their political organizations and activities. In this sense, pieces by professional artists such as Sister and Freire engage both personal and collective experiences of dictatorship, using the tension between political militancy and aesthetic expression to open up a narrative of the past beyond the rhetoric of heroic resistance. The works don’t reject political militancy as a basis for their incarceration by the military, but they also don’t idealize the theme of resistance to engage questions of memory, human rights, and subjectivity. This rearticulation of resistance beyond normalized interpretations of political militancy is also exemplified in the work of another professional artist included in the exhibit, Carlos Takaoka. Takaoka’s Pássaros (Birds; 1969) consists of colorful drawings of birds with intricate patterns exposed in blocks of color that were given to two women in the adjoining cell at DEOPS, inscribed on the back with notes of solidarity: “.  .  .  Margarida  .  .  . Cell 2  .  .  . prison times / From your colleagues in cell 1 and principally the author.”73 The piece, included in the “Cartas [Letters]” section of Insurreições,

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Figure 5. Carlos Takaoka, Untitled. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

reflects the relationships established between fellow prisoners as a way to deal with the physical and mental violence they endured. Takaoka has multiple examples of these visual letters in the exhibit, and all are playful, colorful depictions of communication between prisoners in different cells that do not directly refer to trauma, but rather explore the use of humor to strengthen the connections between prisoners undergoing similar experiences. These letters contrast sharply with other pieces by Takaoka included in the exhibit, such as an untitled bouquet of black skulls (Tiradentes, 1972); or the untitled depiction of a crucifixion (Carandiru, 1974; figure 5) with the São Paulo skyline in the background, multiple objects on the ground below, and a bird flying above the scene holding a banner reading “Uma andorinha não faz verão, mas anuncia [A swallow doesn’t make summer, but announces it].” The portrayal of the death of human figures in these pieces points toward the other side of the relationship between prisoners, as the shared experience of imprisonment, torture, and suffering makes possible the lighthearted moments of interaction depicted in the letters.

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These pieces explore the paradoxes of Takaoka’s experiences as a political prisoner yet do not contain overt references to militancy or social critique of the military regime—­despite the fact that Takaoka was a PCdoB and ALN member and the son of Japanese artist Yoshia Takaoka, who was also active in the PCdoB.74 The relationship between political activism and aesthetic production by someone who identifies as Japanese-​ Brazilian allows us to interrogate the conceptualization of militant resistance in the name of democracy articulated through citizenship and national identity in the long-​term exhibit. As Jeffrey Lesser contends, we can consider Takaoka’s political activism in reference to the concept of ethnic militancy for Japanese-​Brazilian Nikkei: “For Japanese-​Brazilians militancy meant escaping the ethnic boxes of majority society and of their immigrant parents’ generation in an emphatic way. Whether joining banned political movements, training as guerrilla fighters, or acting in erotic films [they] militantly asserted their Brazilianness only to find that doing so reinforced their minority status.”75 Lesser’s approach distinguishes itself from conceptualizations of political militancy during the dictatorship based first upon class difference and revolutionary rhetoric and later articulated through democracy and citizenship, in order to “analyze a potent connection between ethnicity, national identity, and diasporic images.”76 He describes Takaoka as a Nikkei militant and argues that his participation in the PCdoB and armed actions of the Popular Revolutionary Vanguard (Vanguarda Popular Revolucionária, VPR) was, in part, due to a broader conceptualization of ethnic militancy and national identity that guided his political activism. While he does not overtly explore these themes in Insurreições, Takaoka’s inclusion in the exhibit displaces notions of resistance by traditional political leftist organizations related to socialist or democratic ideals as the only type of militancy during this time period. This opens up the field of visibility for the insertion of different conceptualizations of political subjectivity, in both the past and the present, that interrupt the discourse of memory, human rights, and citizenship articulated in the long-​term exhibit. Another example that disrupts the normalized understanding of political militancy presented in the long-​ term exhibit is Carta a Camila, a mix of drawings and phrases by Ângela Rocha and Rita Sipahi77 that was sent as a letter to Rita’s five-​year-​old daughter (figure 6). The “carta” consists of abstract watercolor depictions of such objects as a sun bursting over the horizon (“Camila’s Sun [O sol da

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Figure 6. Rita Sipahi, Carta a Camila. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

Camila]”), a heart, a tree, and a boat. Phrases are inscribed on parts of the letter, some quoting works by well-​known authors and musicians, such as Federico García Lorca’s “Romance Sonámbulo [Sleepwalking Ballad]” (“Green, how I want [love] you green / green wind, green branches [Verde que te quiero verde/verde vento (sic), verdes ramas]”) and Maria Bethânia’s song “É de manhã [It’s morning]” (“Every star is a flower [Cada estrela é uma flor]”), while others deal with philosophical themes (“Every man is an island [Cada homem é uma ilha]”; “God is dark / ugly / a boogeyman / omnipotent / omnipresent / but doesn’t exist [Deus é escuro / feio / bicho-​papão / onipotente / onipresente / mas não existe]”). Other phrases poetically evoke the ways Rocha and Sipahi dealt mentally and physically with their experiences in prison (“Despite everything, they didn’t let themselves become imprisoned [Apesar de tudo, elas não se deixaram aprisionar]”). The aesthetic engagement with culture, philosophy, and personal reflections on incarceration in a letter sent to a child opens up a notion of the political beyond the counterhegemonic discourse of resistance in the name of democracy and justice. The resistance articulated in this piece is not heroic—­undergoing torture to protect others as part

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of a militant duty to combat the dictatorship. Rather, it is resistance in order to experience a future with one’s family, a reason beyond revolutionary militancy or democratic ideals. In this way, the tension between aesthetics and politics traced in Carta a Camila disrupts the idea of resistance grafted upon traditional political subjects as the only way to engage the concepts of memory and human rights, and opens up possibilities for spectators to make connections to the experiences of the prisoners through such themes as love, loss, family, and suffering. These types of aesthetic intervention, which go beyond nostalgic representations of heroic militancy, create a space to connect the artistic reflections of these political prisoners with the experiences of common prisoners who continue to suffer from the human rights abuses alluded to in the exhibit. We can observe this in another piece of Insurreições—­ two caricatures of political prisoners produced in DEOPS by an anonymous “common prisoner [preso da Justiça comum].”78 These pieces stand out from other works in the collection, both for the popular sketch style employed to depict these political prisoners and for the absence of any allusion to militancy (figure 7). A small card below the drawings identifies the women depicted as Rita Sipahi and Maria Stella Pimenta, militants in different leftist organizations. The caricatures resemble the type of drawings that can be purchased from street artists, with exaggerated head sizes emphasizing carnivalesque representations of their facial features and objects important to the subjects. The drawings depict both women with an “ideal” hourglass figure, reflecting the body types typical of caricatures as well as a gendered stereotype projected onto these subjects by the artist. Sipahi is shown sitting on a bed smoking a cigarette, with a book lying open in front of her and a thought cloud above the scene with images of four storks carrying babies. Pimenta is portrayed as an architect laying a brick wall, carrying a t-​square and other tools and holding a crying baby. The caricatured representation of these two women provides a sense of how this common prisoner viewed the two politically involved subjects, placing their militancy aside to focus on other aspects that gave meaning to their lives at this moment in time such as their professions and families. The absence of connection to resistance in the caricatures is amplified by the fact that the artist was a preso comum being held in DEOPS at the same time as the political prisoners. This individual was detained and suffered, just like the other artists in the exhibit, but his position as a common and not political prisoner does not fit within the

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Figure 7. Anonymous, Caricature. Insurreições exhibition at MDR, 2013. Author photo.

countermemory discourse of resistance—­ and has thus been elided from narratives about military and police abuse of prisoners. However, the presence of this common prisoner artist in the exhibit traces an alternative notion of political subjectivation, in that through his status as a nonpolitical prisoner he inserts a dissensual cut in the normative discourse of memory, human rights, and resistance under dictatorship. This is a nonsubject of nunca mais, traced within an aesthetic project bearing witness to the experiences of those who have always been visible in memory discourses while displacing the subjects of economic and social human rights. The intervention of this anonymous artist thus points toward nonheroic and nonvictimized subjectivities that do not count in the consensual rhetoric of human rights in postdictatorship, such as common prisoners or the thousands of indigenous people killed during the dictatorship.79 The fact that many of the works presented in Insurreições were produced in Carandiru further alludes to the continued human rights violations of common prisoners in democracy, exemplified both by the infamous massacre of inmates at Carandiru in 1992 and the growing percentage of poor Afro-​Brazilians imprisoned or

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suffering from popularly sanctioned police violence against “criminals.” Whether or not it was the intention of the curators, this momentary glimpse of a subaltern subject, not fully accounted for within the (counter)hegemonic logic of postdictatorship, destabilizes the idealized narrative of heroic resistance or victimized horror by political activists and makes visible a previously unrecognizable subject of human rights and memory. In this sense, aesthetic interventions such as Insurreições, installed in cultural spaces associated with detention and torture during dictatorship, can perform a political gesture in the Rancieran sense. They can disrupt the distribution of the sensible with regard to postdictatorial memory and human rights and create opportunities for political subjectivation at heterogeneous moments of interaction between these two concepts. Temporary art installations are able to problematize such terms as political subjectivity, resistance, and victims in ways that the archive-​based long-​term exhibit of the Memorial da Resistência cannot. They can explore the limits of politics and aesthetics and question who or what intervenes in the distribution and discussion of these concepts. This creates the opportunity to trace nonheroic and nonvictimized subjects by maintaining the notion of the political as an open category, not solely grafted upon militant resistant subjectivities that are already visible in the past and the present. Reconceptualizing political and aesthetic engagement with questions of memory and human rights as a tension, as “ambiguous” or “litigious” cuts as called for by Rancière, enables us to think through the relationship between memory and human rights—­beyond the ethical focus on witnessing the ruinous subjects of resistance to the catastrophe of dictatorship.

Chapter 3

Melancholy and Dissensus Postdictatorial Subjectivity at the Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria in Montevideo

The Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria (MUME) is located on the grounds of the nineteenth-​century home of dictator Máximo Santos in the Prado Norte neighborhood of Montevideo, Uruguay. The neighborhood is off the beaten path for tourists and residents alike—­ nearly an hour-​long bus ride from either the historic Ciudad Vieja or the upscale Punta Carretas neighborhood, home to Punta Carretas Shopping Mall on the former site of the prison where hundreds of political prisoners were held during the dictatorship.1 This differs from the central location of the Memorial da Resistência, in the Luz district of São Paulo, making MUME less visible or accessible to large parts of the population. Upon entering the gates of the parklike grounds, marked with a red sign hanging from a lamp post that reads “museo de la memoria,” visitors pass a square painted on the paved driveway with “VER . . .” in the top left corner and “DAD” in the bottom right corner, echoing the call for the right to truth and justice for those disappeared by the military and right-​wing paramilitary groups during the dictatorship.2 The grounds are filled with many original structures from the nineteenth century, including gazebos, arched iron trellises for flowers and plants, greenhouses, smaller workshop buildings, a miniature castle, and two ornate fountains—­and the curators often utilize these structures to display temporary art installations at the site. There are also more recently installed benches and a children’s playground, all surrounded by large trees, singing birds, and other wildlife. The peaceful natural setting creates a stark contrast with the content related to 101

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dictatorship and its effects presented in the permanent and temporary exhibits. Like the other cultural centers examined in this book, MUME has a strong social media presence (Facebook, Twitter, etc.), maintains an active relationship with school groups of all ages, and serves as a forum for national and international conferences and debates on memory and human rights. The space includes an archival library related to the dictatorship and the exhibits and events presented at MUME since its inauguration. MUME has contributed numerous installations at other cultural centers in Montevideo and street art interventions in different neighborhoods of the city. It is also active in the local community, opening its doors and resources to meetings, professional development courses, art classes, and Internet access, among other contributions. While these activities are important components of MUME’s mission, in this chapter I focus primarily on its engagement with memory, human rights, and subjectivity in the permanent exhibit and temporary art installations presented in the space.3 Like the MDR and the EMPDDHH, MUME inherently occupies the tension between politics and aesthetics in postdictatorial culture, and thus is an ideal location to explore the construction and distribution of the relationship between cultural memory and human rights discourse in Uruguay. MUME’s permanent exhibit is largely focused on resistance to the dictatorship by the pueblo, which is primarily represented by traditional leftist political organizations and idealized figures of students, workers, and revolutionaries presented as fighting in the name of democracy and social justice. While important for recuperating experiences and political acts that were suppressed by the military regime and the continued social consensus for institutionalized forgetting and amnesty for military personnel, this narrative is articulated through the dual figures of hero and victim of the horrors of dictatorship. Yet, despite the melancholic portrayal of the failures of the Left in the permanent exhibit, MUME has also hosted an extraordinary number of temporary aesthetic installations that explore the themes of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. Many of these pieces have made dissensual interventions into the normalized portrayal of the hero/victim figures offered in the narrative of the permanent exhibit, creating opportunities for those nonsubjects of nunca más to reorient consensual notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. El Museo de la Memoria–­MUME was created by municipal law on October 17, 2006, and on February 1, 2007, a second resolution

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was passed determining that it would be housed in the city-​controlled mansion and grounds of the former dictator Máximo Santos (1847–­ 1889). MUME was officially inaugurated on December 10, 2007, with a mission to “create a space in the city of Montevideo for the promotion of Human and Civil Rights, and the Memory of the struggle for Freedom, Democracy, and Social Justice, all understood as cultural concepts that remain unfinished and in permanent construction.”4 This statement interestingly separates human rights from civil rights, which foreshadows the notion of human rights presented at MUME as a purely political concept defined in relation to the state. It also presents those groups that resisted the dictatorship as fighting in the name of freedom, democracy, and social justice, echoing the turn from the language of social revolution to the consensual discourse of resistance in the name of democracy observed by Markarian. While this mission statement explicitly articulates and recognizes the contingent nature of memory and human rights, many pieces of the institutional vision for MUME and the implementation of the permanent exhibit space ultimately create a static notion of the resistant subjects defending these ideas, foreclosing the opportunity for a permanent (de)construction of the cultural concepts alluded to above. MUME’s goals are articulated through the notion of nunca más, always already conceived in relation to the dictatorship; the cultural center “responds to the urgent need to forcefully symbolize the history of the golpe by the State in this country, so that it is never again repeated.”5 Here again we note the foundational discourse of remembering the state terror of the recent past so that these atrocities never happen again, an exclusionary concept focused on political subjects who count in the dominant understanding of the relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorship. The rhetoric of nunca más is repeated throughout the introductory text outlining the goals and purposes of the cultural center at its inauguration in 2007. Penned by MUME director Elbio Ferrario, himself a political prisoner for sixteen years during the dictatorship, the text begins by comparing the military dictatorships in the Southern Cone with the two most recognizable catastrophes of the twentieth century: the Holocaust and the dropping of the atomic bomb by the United States during World War II. Drawing on the need for the Jewish and Japanese “pueblos” to create symbolic spaces of memory to critically reflect upon these events “so that they never happen again,”6 the text utilizes the discourse of nationhood (“we”) to justify MUME along the same lines: “We firmly believe that nothing justifies the crimes of the nazis,

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nor the atomic holocaust of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, nor the crime of steamrolling democracy by imposing systematic torture, forced disappearances, and prison for thousands of citizens.”7 Thus from its very inauguration, MUME is articulated as a response to the catastrophic golpe of dictatorship, an ethical call to bear witness to the experiences of the victimized or heroic figures who “suffered, resisted, and struggled against the dictatorship for democracy, freedom, and social justice.”8 Prefiguring the discourse found in the permanent exhibit space, Ferrario names the “defenseless workers and students [obreros y estudiantes indefensos]” and the “martyrs” of the Communist Party who were detained, tortured, or killed as the principal subjects of memory and human rights, the visible victim/hero figures of the break with the “democratic pact” by the civilian-​military regime.9 The text disrupts the notion that those who suffered from state violence were “innocent,” highlighting their status as resistant figures in the name of democracy: “The prisoners of the dictatorship, the disappeared, the exiled, those in hiding, were not innocent; they were guilty of struggling against the establishment of the dictatorship.”10 Most important for my purposes is the definition of human rights provided in the text: “By definition, only the State can violate Human Rights. Our State violated them and systematically instituted State terrorism. For this reason, there must be reparations for society in general and for the victims in particular.”11 Here it is obvious that the concept of human rights violations presented in MUME largely follows the turn to the global humanitarian discourse of human rights that accompanied the end of the dictatorships in the region. This again places political subjects—­students, unionized workers, traditional political organizations, and armed revolutionary groups—­at the center of human rights discourse in postdictatorship, while eliding the social and economic rights of those nonheroic and nonvictimized subjects of human rights in whose name these figures were acting. It is for these visible subjects of state violence that the Museo de la Memoria “of the recent past [del pasado reciente]” was created, “so that it never happens again [para que nunca más vuelva a suceder].”12 The rhetoric of nunca más is repeated once more near the end of the inaugural introduction to the permanent exhibit, articulated as the primary goal of MUME: “All actions of the Museo de la Memoria will be oriented toward fighting the mentality that allowed for the establishment of the dictatorship in our country in the recent past, so that the heinous acts and realities that we had to live through never arise again, so that our children and

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our children’s children will never again suffer State terrorism and the violation of human rights.”13 As I have argued throughout this book, the ethical fusion of memory and human rights inscribed in the notion of nunca más ultimately closes the intervals between these concepts, preventing heterogeneous moments of political subjectivation from occurring. While the importance of seeking juridical truth and justice for the atrocities committed during dictatorship is undeniable and the goal of keeping these experiences visible for new generations is admirable, presenting memory and human rights as consubstantial concepts always already articulated in relation to dictatorship contradicts the mission of MUME to consider these themes as contingent cultural concepts. In fact, other parts of the vision for MUME suggest a more open interpretation of the notion—­“the defense of human rights, for justice and against oppression, inequality, discrimination, and exploitation”14—­that is ultimately negated though repeated use of the notion of nunca más as the rhetorical gesture connecting past and present throughout the permanent exhibit at MUME.

The Melancholy of Heroic Resistance and Victimized Horror at MUME Installed in 2007, MUME’s permanent exhibit can be described as a melancholic monument to the failures of the Uruguayan Left in the 1960s and 1970s. Beginning with the increased repression and social protest of the late 1960s, through the official installation of the dictatorship in 1973, and continuing into the present search for truth and juridical justice for human rights violations committed against political prisoners, the permanent exhibit predominately articulates a counterhistory of the dictatorship and its effects from the perspective of the militant Left. The exhibit is divided into six spaces in the Santos mansion, each with its corresponding theme: “The Installation of Dictatorship” (La instauración de la dictadura); “The Popular Resistance” (La Resistencia Popular); “Prisons” (Cárceles); “Exile” (Exilio); “Disappeared” (Desaparecidos); and “Democratic Opening” (Apertura democrática). Taken together, these displays provide important historical facts about dictatorship and its effects, much of which was initially repressed during the first postdictatorial moment but has since been widely circulated in the testimonial memory boom of the 1990s and

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early 2000s. The permanent installation at MUME is presented quite differently from the interactive spaces of the MDR, with old newspaper clippings, flyers, books, and objects pertaining to political prisoners presented in glass enclosures with small labels, recalling museum exhibits from a bygone era. The space also contains such objects as an old mimeograph machine used by the Uruguayan Communist Party (Partido Comunista Uruguayo, PCU) to clandestinely make street flyers calling for resistance to the civil-​military government, and large cell doors transported from the ironically named Libertad prison where members of the urban guerrilla group National Liberation Movement–­ Tupamaros (Movimiento de Liberación Nacional–­Tupamaros, MLN-​T) and other political subversives were held during the dictatorship. These objects are presented as relics from the past, echoing the disconnect between the memory of dictatorship being recuperated and the intent to promote human rights and social justice in the present. The first room of the permanent installation is focused on the period leading up to the military coup and the initial phase of the civil-​military dictatorship beginning in 1973.15 The room contains large panels of text providing the historical context and describing the initial acts of repression by the state and resistance by the pueblo that guide the countermemory narrative offered in MUME. These texts are accompanied by large black-​and-​white images of police and military repression and multitudinous protest, along with objects presented in glass enclosures such as newspaper clippings about the murder of students, workers, and Communist Party members, personal possessions of those who were killed, and flyers protesting state violence and calling for action. The room includes a listening station playing a live recording of the play Libertad Libertad on a portable CD player and two seats taken from the Teatro El Galpón, where the play was presented, which was shut down by the dictatorship in 1976 for being a center for “political activities of Marxist-​Leninist tendencies.”16 A repeating short film entitled La manifestación del silencio (Demonstration of silence; dir. Maria Cultelli), which plays overhead on a projector screen in the middle of the room, includes fragments of interviews with Uruguayan protest musician Daniel Viglietti and former MLN-​T leader Andrés Cultelli, as well as references to the repression by the dictatorial regime and desaparecidos. The objects and images presented highlight important events and well-​ known figures of the Left that are emblematic of the heroic resistance to dictatorship articulated by the permanent exhibit.17 The

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curators include a photograph of a banner that reads, “Tyranny killed a worker [La tiranía mató un obrero]—­Arturo Recalde,” incorporating the death of a union worker into the narrative of resistance to dictatorial repression by displacing the focus on the life and death of Recalde with images of street protests in his name.18 This photo is placed next to that of Líber Arce, a student killed by police during a protest whose funeral sparked a massive public demonstration, highlighted in large photos in this room. Arce is the most visible figure of the student resistance to dictatorship, as there continues to be an annual protest by students on the anniversary of his death to remember the “student martyrs [mártires estudiantiles]” who were killed during the dictatorship.19 This use of the term martyr is repeated in the presentation of the murder of eight members of the PCU by military forces during a meeting in 1974, now known as the “Eight Martyrs of Section 20 of the Uruguayan Communist Party [Ocho mártires del seccional 20 del Partido Comunista Uruguayo].” While the violence perpetrated by the state against these students and workers is undeniably important to recall, the curators articulate their political acts as resistance in the name of democracy and position these heroic/victimized martyrs of the traditional Left as the primary subjects of memory and human rights discourse. This is echoed through the inclusion of street flyers placed in glass cases with calls for the “pueblo” to resist, signed by “Workers and Students [Obreros y Estudiantes]” or emblazoned with the Uruguayan national motto, “Liberty or Death [Libertad o Muerte],” while adding the qualifier “Today as Yesterday [Hoy como Ayer],” articulating the actions of the militant Left in the same patriotic rhetoric of nation as was used by the military regime. This attempt to recuperate the actions of leftist militants as heroic acts and antidictatorial symbols in defense of democracy often elides the violence used by some of these groups and the nondemocratic structure and acts of armed organizations such as the MLN-​T.20 By 1972, the nonviolent Robin Hood–­style political acts of the Tupamaros of the late 1960s had transmuted into the kidnapping and murder of (para)military personnel suspected of torture, kidnapping, or supporting the military regime.21 This development is presented in a second panel explaining the actions of the right-​wing death squads and the MLN-​T as they began to engage in reciprocal violence.22 Unlike many idealized representations of the MLN-​T, the curators use the term murder to describe the killing of USAID agent Dan Mitrione (suspected of teaching torture tactics to the military) and four members

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of a right-​wing paramilitary group, saying that “the MLN murdered four people accused of belonging to the ‘death squad.’ ”23 Members of the Tupamaros killed these individuals in reciprocation for the murder of MLN-​T members Abel Ayala, Manuel Ramos Filippini, and Héctor Castagnetto by the death squads, considered the first desaparecidos in Uruguay. This led to more MLN-​T members being killed by the police and military forces, and to continued escalation of violence between the state and those engaged in both armed and nonviolent resistance to the dictatorship. However, the overall portrayal of the MLN-​T echoes that of the figures of “worker” and “student” in the permanent exhibit: a nostalgic and marketable representation of revolution and resistance that frames who or what counts as subjects of postdictatorial memory and the discourse of human rights. The information contained in this panel connects with the objects, newspaper clippings, and texts explaining the murder of student, militant, artist, and poet Ibero Gutiérrez. Though not directly affiliated with the MLN-​T, Gutiérrez was tortured and shot multiple times on the same day that a group of Tupamaros kidnapped death squad member Nelson Bardesio. The “Tupamaro Hunters” (Comando Caza Tupamaros, CCT), a popular term for the death squads, left a note with Gutiérrez’s body claiming responsibility for the act and indicating that it was in response to the MLN-​T kidnapping. Gutiérrez was an active member of several militant groups on the left and had been detained numerous times by the government for suspicions of collusion with the MLN-​T, even spending time in the Punta Carretas prison. I will return to Gutiérrez later in this chapter, as MUME holds many personal diaries, poems, art, and other works donated by his family and presented them in a temporary exhibit in 2009. In the permanent exhibit, however, Gutiérrez is presented as a heroic martyr of the resistance to the military regime. The case contains some personal effects, his passport with a photograph, and a street flyer signed by the Federation of University Students (Federación de Estudiantes Universitarios, FEUU) denouncing his murder as an example of the government’s “fascist violence” and accusing the large media outlets of justifying this violence by repeating the rhetoric of terrorism regarding anyone who was killed, even those did not participate in armed organizations. In this sense, Gutiérrez’s life and death are appropriated in the historical counternarrative of resistance to the military regime by organizations connected with the militant Left, and he appears along with Líber Arce as one of the “martyred students” presented as antidictatorial symbols in postdictatorial discourse.

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In this room the curators also highlight the murder of Soledad Barrett by the military dictatorship in Brazil through a framed newspaper page describing her death and a violent experience she endured as a teenager. Born in Paraguay, Barrett had spent time living in Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil and was active in leftist political parties and militant groups in all three countries. While living in Uruguay, a seventeen-​year-​old Barrett was dragged into the street and beaten by a group of neo-​Nazis, who carved swastikas in her legs with a knife and left her in the street after she allegedly refused to say “Viva Hitler.” A photo of her legs and a copy of the newspaper article describing this experience is placed next to an enlarged image of a news story about her murder in Brazil years later, when she was handed over to Brazilian military personnel by her partner (and father of the child she was carrying), José Anselmo dos Santos, and killed near Recife in northeastern Brazil.24 Barrett’s life and death inspired poems by two of Uruguay’s most famous cultural figures, singer-​songwriter Daniel Viglietti (“Soledad”) and novelist and poet Mario Benedetti (“Muerte de Soledad Barrett” [Death of Soledad Barrett]), neither of which are mentioned by the curators. The inclusion of Barrett is perhaps the most striking feature of this section of the exhibit, which here steps outside the rhetoric of heroic resistance by the “Uruguayan people” to briefly touch upon the life and death of a woman who lived throughout the region and was affected by the transnational relationship between the military governments established through the so-​called Plan Cóndor. At the same time, Barrett is portrayed as an antidictatorial symbol, a martyr whose life and death are appropriated in a counterhegemonic narrative of resistance that provides little space to critically reflect upon these experiences beyond the catastrophe of dictatorship. Again, my intent is not to diminish the suffering of people such as Barrett or Gutiérrez, nor to denigrate the attempt to recuperate their political activism, but rather to problematize a portrayal of their lives that transforms them into heroic symbols of resistance in the name of democracy and civil rights. This places these figures at the center of human rights discourse while eliding those nonheroic, nonvictimized subjects of economic and social rights that were at the center of their radical political acts at this time. This narrative continues in the second part of the exhibit, which focuses on the repression and surveillance of society during the dictatorship and the popular resistance (la resistencia popular) in the face of state terror. The texts in this room describe government repression during the dictatorship, presented in Foucauldian terms as a “planned

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system of extreme surveillance and repression, conceived in order to ‘discipline’ all of society.”25 This included censorship, banning of both public and private gatherings, limitations on political parties and labor organizations, control of the media and the education system at all levels, classification of citizens based on political affiliation, and preventing those deemed “subversive” from gaining employment.26 The majority of informational texts in this room focus on popular resistance to the dictatorship, largely highlighting the acts of those connected with the organized Left, such as strikes and occupations by organized labor and students. These texts are accompanied by images of multitudinous resistance that echo those presented in the MDR: people throwing objects at the police and military forces, a group holding a banner that reads, “¡¡No al golpe!!” and the “Libertad o muerte” flag carried by a member of the crowd. While this part of the exhibit primarily highlights the role played by students, labor unions, and traditional leftist parties in the popular resistance to the dictatorship, presenting them as heroic vanguard subjects through a nostalgic tenor, it also notes other forms of resistance to the dictatorship. These include social criticism through music, art, or theater that evaded censorship through metaphors and double entendres; new underground magazines and journals that expressed opposition to the military regime; and acknowledgment of the role that new social movements such as women’s groups, human rights organizations, and housing cooperatives played in ending the dictatorship—­particularly through performative acts of protest such as caceroladas and apagones.27 Multiple flyers calling for caceroladas and apagones in the name of democracy are included in this room, and a collection of pots and pans hangs from the ceiling to evoke these political acts by anonymous subjects that are displaced by the curators’ attempt to recuperate the history of the militant Left. This section of the exhibit closes its portrayal of popular resistance to the military by focusing on the events that marked the end of the dictatorship, including the 1980 plebiscite rejecting the government’s call to change the constitution and the increased visibility of public protests calling for amnesty and democracy. Visitors encounter propaganda flyers urging a NO vote in the 1980 plebiscite, such as the Frente Amplio’s large poster calling for “NO to the fraud of the dictatorship!” (¡NO! Al fraude de la dictadura) underneath a drawing of a human figure with the mouth taped shut, the face marked by tears and drops of blood. This poster cites the dictatorship’s use of torture and censorship

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as the primary reason to vote against extending its authority, while reinforcing the notion of the Frente Amplio as the vanguard of the popular resistance. This portion of the exhibit closes by noting the gathering of over 400,000 people in 1983 at the Obelisco monument in the center of Montevideo to call for the end of dictatorship, highlighted by the reading of a text titled “For a Democratic Uruguay without Exclusions [Por un Uruguay democrático y sin exclusiones]” read by actor Alberto Candeau. This was the emblematic event of public protest calling for democracy, often portrayed as the beginning of the end for the dictatorship, a narrative repeated at MUME. The next two rooms focus on the experiences of political prisoners and those exiled during the dictatorship. The first room, “Las cárceles,” is dedicated to those detained by the military during the dictatorship, many of whom remained imprisoned for more than a decade. The introductory text provides information on the number of political prisoners during the dictatorship (nearly nine thousand), the experiences of these individuals as they were moved from various locations (many clandestine) and underwent systematic torture, often resulting in death. This information is taken from the SERPAJ’s Uruguay Nunca más, as the military records remain classified or are otherwise unavailable given the persistence of the Amnesty Law in Uruguay.28 Another panel offers information about the principal locations used to house political prisoners: Punta Carretas initially, then Penal Libertad (men) and Punta Rieles (women) for the duration of the dictatorship. While these texts provide statistics on the number of prisoners in each space, more important for my purposes is the language used to describe the experiences of those in prison and their effects on the population at large. The curators note that the torture of political prisoners was reported to the population to instill “fear in all of society,”29 echoing the Foucauldian notion of discipline alluded to in the previous room. The discourse of resistance pervades the description of the experience of political prisoners, reiterating the sense of being a heroic antidictatorial symbol that appears throughout the permanent exhibit: “Despite the very difficult prison conditions, those who were imprisoned in these places developed multiple forms of resistance that were key to remaining alive and maintaining their physical and emotional well-​being.”30 Presenting the suffering of political prisoners and highlighting various forms of resistance is important in a society where impunity remains for acts of state terror committed during the dictatorship. However, the fused narratives of memory and human rights presented in the

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permanent exhibit again perform the constitutive exclusion of the nonsubjects of nunca más that do not count in postdictatorial discourse. This is made evident by the lack of information regarding common prisoners in this section of the permanent exhibit, even though Penal Libertad was repurposed as a general prison following the transition to democracy and the human rights of poor, nonpolitical subjects continue to be violated in the present. As Susana Draper argues in her critique of this section of MUME, this makes us “think about the limits and possibilities of the museification of memory. . . . Where does the recuperation of this ‘other-​memory’ begin and end? From where can we conceptualize it?”31 Draper argues that Libertad is a material site of afterlife for a “penitentiary politics that was partly established by the dictatorship by naturalizing ways to criminalize poverty (which is another form of impunity).”32 The continuation of human rights violations in democracy cannot solely be attributed to impunity for state violence committed during the dictatorship, but rather exposes the limits of the discourse of nunca más. The permanent exhibit at MUME reiterates the foundational exclusion of nonheroes and nonvictims of civil and political rights in liberal, humanitarian discourse. As such, the experiences of common prisoners placed in Libertad as a result of the criminalization of poverty remain invisible in both the past and the present—­at the limits of the “museification of memory” in postdictatorial culture. Accompanying the texts are numerous physical objects taken from or made in the former prisons, all presented as relics of the past in an almost archaic museological manner. In the center of the room hang prison uniforms worn by men and women held as political prisoners during the dictatorship, including one labeled as belonging to former Uruguayan president and ex-​Tupamaro José Mujica (figure 8). There are two large cell doors from Penal Libertad; a lock taken from a cell at Punta Carretas that accompanies images of the building as a prison and its current incarnation as an upscale shopping center; and black-​ and-​white photographs of the prisons on a large panel. There are also artisanal necklaces, pendants, and other objects made by political prisoners while incarcerated, as well as drafts of books written while at Libertad, Rieles, and Punta Carretas. The room also contains another short film by Virginia Martinez called Las cárceles, which focuses on the testimonies of some former political prisoners and includes drawings that MUME director (and trained visual artist) Elbio Ferrario made while he was in Libertad. These texts and objects reflect the

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Figure 8. Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria (MUME), Las cárceles exhibit, 2013. Author photo.

experiences of political prisoners during the dictatorship, articulated as a counterdiscourse to the military personnel’s continued official impunity for acts of state violence committed against those perceived as subversives. However, the presentation of objects in glass cases offers them as relics from the past, with no connection to present-​day issues of human rights. This is continued in the adjoining display, “Exile [El exilio],” with texts and objects that highlight the actions of political militants who worked from exile to bring visibility to the acts of state terror perpetrated by the civil-​military regime and its allies. The curators present the activities of those in exile as an important piece of popular mobilization against the regime, “a true front opposing and denouncing the Uruguayan dictatorship.”33 The text and the accompanying short film, El exilio (dir. Federico Beltramelli and Mario Handler), highlight the experiences of exiled leaders of the banned political parties in attracting international attention to the repression in Uruguay, including Wilson

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Ferreria Aldunate and Zelmar Michelini, the latter assassinated in Buenos Aires in 1976 by the Argentine military. There is also a large panel with black-​and-​white images from a street protest in Paris condemning the use of torture by the military dictatorship and calling for solidarity with Uruguay, which serves as a visual connection to the contributions made by political militants living in exile in calling international attention to the situation in Uruguay. The curators include items connected to notions of human rights at this postdictatorial moment, with a specific focus on the work of Amnesty International for bringing detention, torture, and murder to light and contributing to the end of the dictatorship. Objects in the glass cases include a collection of political buttons, passports, and other items pertaining to the exiles. There are posters related to the Tortura Nunca Más project of Amnesty International in Uruguay during the early 1980s, including a large drawing of a human figure hanging from ropes attached to the ceiling, with arms tied behind the back as the figure lies writhing in pain. A booklet summarizes the Amnesty International report on human rights violations in Uruguay, focusing specifically on the detention, torture, and murder committed by military personnel for “political motives [motivos políticos].” There is also a pocket-​sized “Pasaporte de los Derechos Humanos,” which was published as part of the sixtieth anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, containing the entirely of the 1948 text. The booklet is inscribed with the slogan “They are your rights: enjoy and protect them [Son tus derechos: disfrutálos y protegélos],” written with the accentuation of the dialect of Spanish predominately used in the Rio de la Plata region, reflecting the localized tenor of the Amnesty International project in Uruguay. Taken together, these adjoining rooms highlight the discourse of international humanitarianism that accompanied the turn to civil and political rights and away from social and economic human rights near the end of the dictatorship in Uruguay. The subjective turn from the marginalized populations in whose name most political activists acted to the suffering of the militants themselves is musealized in the permanent exhibit, suturing the notion of human rights subjectivity in postdictatorship to the experiences of leftists who were killed or exiled, or suffered years of detention and torture as political prisoners. Thus the permanent exhibit at MUME ultimately solidifies the turn to international humanitarianism as the focus of human rights discourse in postdictatorship by highlighting the activities of Amnesty International

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and the violation of liberal notions of the rights of political dissidents. Again, while it is no doubt important to recuperate, narrate, and distribute the memories of these experiences to establish the truth about state terror and seek justice for these acts, these processes need to be disentangled from the human rights subjectivity established through the notion of nunca más. It is difficult to explore the tension between memory and human rights through exhibits that present information to visitors using a social science–­based museological approach. This is evident in the permanent exhibit at MUME, as these concepts are presented as a coextensive pair through a counterhegemonic discourse that is merely the inverse of the rhetoric of the dictatorship (as critiqued by Nelly Richard), placing the experiences of militants connected with multiple Left organizations at the center of a testimonial narrative articulated through civil and political rights and global humanitarianism. The ethical suture of memory and human rights is clearly seen in the next room, which focuses on the most emblematic subjects of nunca más: los desaparecidos. The disappeared are presented through what has become the dominant visual representation of their absent bodies: enlarged photos taken from government-​issued ID cards placed on placards and carried by family members as an act of protest. This practice, best known through the public demonstrations of the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo in Argentina, serves to critique the role of the state in the disappearance of its own citizens, to question the status of “noncitizen” or “nonentity” that the military sought to achieve by eliminating the bodies of those killed, and to insert the “absent-​presence” of the disappeared into contemporary debates.34 As visitors enter the room, they pass through a small transition space containing a collection of placards hanging from the ceiling with the images of the estimated 230 Uruguayans who were disappeared throughout the Southern Cone under the military dictatorships in the region. The placards contain an ID portrait of each person, along with the name and date of disappearance. The accompanying text, titled “Los desaparecidos,” provides information on how these individuals were taken from their homes or public streets by police and military forces without due process or documentation. The text explains that many Uruguayans were disappeared in other countries as part of the Plan Cóndor and highlights the practice of separating children from their detained parents and giving them to families friendly to the regime. Entering the larger space dedicated to the disappeared, visitors encounter a framed page from a newspaper that lists the names of

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all of the disappeared above the image of a street protest demanding truth about their fate. A placard of a child (Mariana Zaffaroni) who was born to one of the disappeared and then given to another family figures prominently in the image, and an enlarged version is overlaid on the list of names, accentuating the horror and complete disregard for humanity in these acts. This part of the exhibit highlights the archaeological forensic work involved in finding the bodies of the disappeared, whose final resting place remains largely hidden due to the impunity granted to military personnel. The texts are accompanied by large rocks corresponding to archeological digs that are placed in glass cases—­ objects that seem out of place when compared to other portions of the exhibit. This room contains small name tags with images pertaining to the Madres de Uruguayos Desaparecidos en Argentina (Mothers of Uruguayans Disappeared in Argentina), again highlighting the transnational connections of both the military repression and solidarity with those who were affected by state terror throughout the region. This part of the exhibit includes a short film dedicated to the disappeared, A todos ellos (To all of them), which echoes a 2004 book with the same name, published by the Mothers and Families of the Detained and Disappeared (Madres y Familiares de los Detenidos Desaparecidos) in Uruguay, which documents the lives and disappearance of their children.35 The film consists of images and clips emphasizing resistance and protest in opposition to the dictatorship in Uruguay, with images of the disappeared fading in and out throughout the film. The soundtrack is Daniel Viglietti’s iconic hymn dedicated to the disappeared, “Otra voz canta [Another voice sings],” whose music and intonation recall the protest music of Geraldo Vandré that accompanies the permanent exhibit at the MDR in São Paulo. The film ends with a close-​up of Viglietti holding images of the disappeared as he stares directly into the camera and sings, “They are not only memory / They are open life / They are a path that begins / And that calls to us [No son solo la memoria / Son vida abierta / Son camino que empieza / Y que nos llama],” then continues to hum as the names of the disappeared scroll on the screen, imploring spectators both to bear witness to the disappearance of these people and to act politically to pursue justice for their murder by state. The room also contains part of Giulia Cilla’s Paisito: Tomo VI (Little country, take VI), which was initially a temporary installation in February 2012 but has remained in the section of the permanent exhibit dedicated to the disappeared. The title refers to the five-​volume Historical Investigation of the Disappeared (Investigación histórica sobre

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los detenidos desaparecidos), published in 2007 by the Office of the President and historians from the Universidad de la República.36 The Paisito installation consists of ID images of the disappeared printed on small pieces of white fabric, evoking the iconic handkerchiefs worn by the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo and the less visible Madres Uruguayas. Each image is individually backlit by an LED connected to light switches that visitors can turn on to illuminate the faces of each of the disappeared. The original installation included the volumes of the Historical Investigation documenting the disappearance of Uruguayan citizens by the state, but they are no longer present. Though not explained to visitors, Cilla belongs to the postdictatorship generation, born in 1983 in Switzerland to parents exiled from Uruguay during the military dictatorship. In the description of the installation, Cilla talks about her desire to connect the past with the present through “a plurality of voices,” thus breaking with the idea that “history is a monolith.”37 She argues that the simple act of turning on the light to illuminate the images of the disappeared above works as an intergenerational dialogue about the past, where visitors to the exhibit “maintain, care for, and once again collectively invent our memory” about the dictatorial past and its effects.38 Cilla has stated that the installation seeks to “lay out the function of memory and its relation with legal justice (or injustice) today in our country. To connect this theme with the present once again and to break with the rhetoric of a monolithic, moralist, sterile and immobile memory in order to critically elaborate upon the present.”39 While this may indeed be the goal of the installation, in its current form within the permanent exhibit at MUME there is little that offers a way to think critically about the construction of memory and its connection with (in)justice in the present. The images echo those on the placards at the entrance of the room and ultimately maintain the focus on those political dissidents who were disappeared during the dictatorship and the continued lack of justice for their disappearance. We observe the same dynamic in Viglietti’s call to action, which utilizes a figure associated with 1960s protest culture and photo IDs of the disappeared to implore spectators to act in the name of memory, truth, and justice. There is no space for a multiplicity of subjects in this notion of justice, no possibility of thinking through the economic and social injustice experienced by marginalized populations made even more invisible by the subjective turn to the hero/victim figure of postdictatorship. The notions of memory, justice, and human rights are articulated in relationship to

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dictatorship and the subjects that are always already visible in postdictatorial discourse, most emblematically symbolized by the disappeared. Visitors then enter the final room of the permanent exhibit, which focuses on the end of the dictatorship and the transition to political democracy, marked by an informational text titled “La recuperación democrática y la lucha por verdad y justicia” (Redemocratization and the struggle for truth and justice). The first panel describes the continued repression by the military regime in 1984, citing the deaths of political prisoners under torture, including that of MLN-​T member Adolfo Wassem, who, like other prisoners considered “rehenes [hostages]”40 by the dictatorship, had been held in clandestine enclosures for over ten years. The text also highlights a general strike by newly legal worker unions (quickly leading to their dissolution again) and a large public protest on the eleventh anniversary of the installation of the dictatorship, “calling for freedom, elections without restrictions, and amnesty for political prisoners.”41 The first two panels present information about the secret meetings between the military and representatives of the major political parties (Colorado, Nacional, Unión Cívica, and Frente Amplio) to negotiate the return to a democratic form of government, culminating in a general election held in November 1984 that marked the official end of the dictatorship.42 The second panel concludes, “While one period closed, a moment of transition was beginning with important pending issues, including the difficult economic situation and the reports of human rights violations during the dictatorship.”43 While this panel alludes to issues of economic justice for much of the population at the end of the dictatorship, it also marks the transition to a focus on human rights violations perpetrated by the state against political dissidents and away from social and economic interpretations of human rights. The room contains installations, images, and objects related to the official end of the dictatorship in 1984 and continuing attempts to undo the amnesty law that provides impunity for military personnel. One side of the room contains large framed newspaper pages that present a textual and visual narrative of the dictatorship through a discourse of resistance highlighting the actions of the Left. The texts echo the information provided elsewhere in the permanent exhibit, but the images draw the spectators’ attention. One frame focuses on the torture of political prisoners in 1984, juxtaposing the image of a rose dripping with blood with a red spot evoking a blood stain on a white background. Another newspaper dealing with the disappeared presents an enlarged

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image of the smiling disappeared baby that was included in the “Los desaparecidos” section, along with images of other well-​known disappeared, including Zelmar Michelini. One frame reproduces the decree dissolving congress and installing the dictatorship in 1973 underneath an image of chains, symbolizing the repression of the regime, while another celebrates the successful plebiscite against changes to the constitution in 1980 with a flowing rainbow emanating from a large NO and a smaller reproduction of the flyers used to call for the “no” vote. Another image explicitly compares the dictatorship with Nazi Germany, with a swastika-​shaped knife tracing a line on the page, with blood dripping in its wake and a text concluding, “Fascism shows its claws [El facisimo muestra sus uñas].” Another frame contains a large black-​ and-​white drawing of a pot, evoking the cacerolazos used in popular resistance and protest during the dictatorship. Other frames celebrate the end of dictatorship, one with an image of large crowds celebrating on May Day in 1985, with smaller images of protest musicians such as Cubans Silvio Rodriguez and Pablo Milanés in concert in Montevideo. Another contains a black-​and-​white drawing of a clenched fist climbing over barbed wire, symbolizing both the resistance of the “pueblo” and the victory of elections and amnesty for political prisoners. The third frame reminds spectators of the acts of resistance by the Partido Comunista Uruguayo and Frente Amplio during the dictatorship, presenting a trajectory of the acts of these two parties that culminated in the return to democratic elections in 1984. The symbols for the two parties appear at the bottom of the page, with the phrase “Memory of a people who resisted for the future [Memoria de un pueblo que resistió por el futuro]” inscribed on a stop-​motion photograph of a fist slowly opening, culminating in a rainbow shooting out of the open hand. This suggests the resistance of left-​wing political parties during the dictatorship, symbolized by the closed, raised fist at the left side of the frame, slowly opening with the temporal movement toward the democratic present, then moving through the rainbow shooting off toward the future. This frame perhaps best encapsulates the attempt to recuperate the political acts of the militant Left during the dictatorship as democratic resistance in the name of the pueblo uruguayo, introducing parties such as the Partido Comunista Uruguayo and Frente Amplio as viable participants in the political reorganization of society in postdictatorship. This part of the room also contains a temporary audiovisual installation on the Voto Verde (Green Vote) that has become part of the

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permanent exhibit. This installation is dedicated to the failed 1989 campaign to annul the law granting impunity for violence committed by the state during the dictatorship. The exhibit consists of an online collection, viewable on a computer set up in the room, of images of wall graffiti throughout Montevideo containing artwork and phrases in support of annulling the law.44 In the middle of the room, underneath a projector screen, sits a small glass enclosure with Sí and No voting cards from the failed plebiscite. The film projected on the screen shows wall graffiti, flyers, and banners related to the Voto Verde, with an audio voiceover explaining the project with an upbeat Voto Verde jingle reminiscent of Richie Valens’s “La Bamba” playing in the background. The optimistic narrative of the film and the positive presentation of the Voto Verde project obscure the fact that it ultimately failed, as the plebiscite to end the amnesty law was defeated in 1989 (and again in 2009). In this sense, the installation appears as a tribute to the defeat of the past, a contradictory celebration of the failure to undo the law providing impunity to military personnel, ironically upheld by the democratic process that is presented as the culmination of resistance to the dictatorship.45 The other side of the room is dominated by a large banner reading “Por un Uruguay democrático y sin exclusiones,” which appeared behind actor Alberto Candeau as he read the text alluded to in the “Popular resistance” section of the permanent exhibit. Placed in front of the banner are images of Candeau giving this speech calling for the end of dictatorship and pictures of the 1984 strike by the Intersyndicate Plenary of Workers (Plenario Intersindical de Trabajadores, PIT), referred to in the informational panels. The photographs and banner are intended to portray the end of the dictatorship as the culmination of popular resistance to the civil-​military regime, with leftist organizations such as the PCU and the FA at the vanguard. This is reiterated with two more framed newspaper images highlighting the actions of the FA and the Intersyndicate Plenary of Workers–­National Convention of Workers (Plenario Intersindical de Trabajadores–­Convención Nacional de Trabajadores, PIT-​CNT), now combined into one labor organization, in building the “river of freedom [rio de libertad]” of public protests, represented by a rainbow flowing over the crowds at Candeau’s 1983 speech and the 1984 PIT public strike. Yet this portrayal of the end of the dictatorship in Uruguay is contradicted by the informational panels in this same room, which inform visitors that, as in Brazil, the end of dictatorship was a secretly negotiated process involving the military and a few representatives of political parties that ultimately served as the

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foundation for the official politics of forgetting and the continued institutionalized amnesty and impunity that remains in effect today. Once again, this is glossed over in favor of the narrative of popular resistance that forced the end of military rule and the return of democracy. At the back of the room underneath the PIT-​CNT flag rests the actual door to Seccional 20 of the PCU where the 8 mártires were killed by military forces in 1974, offering a connection with the first room of the permanent exhibit, where this event was introduced. The presence of this door repeats a common trope in the permanent exhibit at MUME: inclusion of material objects related to the events described to visitors as a physical symbol of memory. We can see this approach in the inclusion of prison doors and locks from Penal Libertad and Punta Carretas, the uniforms worn by political prisoners, passports and other objects related to exile, the banners from the large public protests calling for democracy, and the old PCU mimeograph machine. Yet, instead of sparking critical memory work in the present, these objects seem more like relics of the past within the traditional museological discourse of glass enclosures, small labels identifying the objects, and black-​and-​white images and informational texts related to the dictatorship. They appear as a melancholic tribute to the catastrophe of the past: not Benjaminian-​ inflected ruins recuperated and inserted into the present to disrupt the dominant tropes of postdictatorial culture, but rather a call to ethically bear witness to the horrors of the past in the narrative discourse established by the dictatorship itself. In this sense, this room serves as the culmination of the counterhegemonic narrative articulated throughout the exhibit, recuperating those political subjects who were imprisoned, tortured, and killed as the heroic victims of resistance and the visible subjects of human rights in both the past and the present. A particularly striking object in this room draws the attention of visitors: a color photograph taken by Mauricio Bruno during the Marcha del Silencio (March of Silence), the protest march held each year on May 20 in the streets of Montevideo by the families of the disappeared to call for truth and justice for murders by the military regime and its paramilitary supporters.46 It is an image of a young man staring at the camera, surrounded by protesters blurred into the background beneath a large banner that reads, “Enough impunity [Basta con la impunidad].” The interaction between the gaze of the spectator returned by the protester challenges us to recognize the continued impunity for military personnel and the traumatic effects felt by the families of the disappeared in not knowing their final resting place. Like the Paisito

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installation, this image moves beyond the documentary feel of the rest of the permanent exhibit to establish an affective relationship with spectators, inciting them to bear witness to the experience of the Marcha del Silencio and to act politically in the continued battle against impunity. The large color photograph disrupts the role of passive observer of a historical narrative constructed through nostalgic images and objects presented as relics of the past. While obviously connected with the continued call for justice for the disappeared, the defiant gaze of the protestor does not evoke heroic notions of resistance in the past but rather intimates a will to resist in the future. There is no guarantee that political subjectivation will occur via this aesthetic intervention, but the image does not conform to the pedagogical discourse of “representational mediation” and “ethical immediacy”47 that dominates the rest of the permanent exhibit. This image explores the limits of the relationship between politics and aesthetics in the sense developed by Rancière, providing a momentary disruption of the social science–­inflected discourse of the permanent exhibit that reframes the distribution of the sensible related to postdictatorial culture for the spectator. This echoes the affects that temporary aesthetic interventions can have in the relationship with the “political” counternarrative offered by the permanent exhibit. While MUME can be critiqued for its continued use of a nostalgic narrative of resistance focused primarily on the heroic/victimized subjects connected with leftist organizations during the dictatorship, the curators have also presented an impressive number of short-​term installations since its inauguration. The interaction of these temporary aesthetic installations with the permanent exhibit allows us to explore the limits of what constitutes the political in the contingent relationship between memory and human rights, thus creating the conditions of possibility for alternative forms of political subjectivation in postdictatorial culture. This opens up an interpretation of nunca más that moves beyond the ethical call for truth and justice for the disappeared or a melancholic mourning of the past failures of the Left and the catastrophe of the dictatorship and its effects.

Dissensual Aesthetic Cuts at MUME An intriguing temporary installation that has been permanently incorporated into the MUME site, Marta Pagliano’s Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo

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(Space/place/time), consists of mixed-​media collages installed on trees, benches, and walls surrounding the grounds of MUME. All of the pieces include a black-​and-​white photograph evoking the past inserted in a larger color landscape (trees, hills, or the grounds of MUME itself). Pagliano then intervenes further into each black-​and-​white photograph through graffiti-​like drawings using bright colors, dark black outlines, and touches that evoke spray-​painted street art. She then rearranges the elements of each panel using a computer program, layering the drawings and images in different ways and often repeating the elements. Pagliano plays with scale and perspective in several pieces, taking a photograph of the mixed-​media collage installed at MUME, for example, and placing this new image in the same space as the original physical installation. This produces a multiplicity of levels for spectators, who are in fact viewing a photograph of an installation that was present in the very same space but no longer remains—­a posterior representation of the original intervention. In this way, Pagliano’s work explores the palimpsestic experience of simultaneity in space and time, and the multiple exposures point toward the heterogeneity of the relationship between past and present and the diverse ways to represent, perceive, and interpret a given subject. Two panels are particularly noteworthy for their allusion to memory and human rights. Both are placed in natural landscapes that enter into visual dialogue with Pagliano’s black-​and-​white images and drawings. In one panel an image of sheep grazing in a hilly pasture is peeled away by the graffiti-​like intervention at the bottom, revealing three exposures of a black-​and-​white image of a prostrate nude body with a large scar on the stomach, suggesting the removal of a bodily organ (figure 9). Each exposure focuses on a different part of the body, a close shot focused on the subject’s hands where the scar is not visible, and two wide-​angle images that show the large scar on the figure’s nude torso. In the context of MUME, one immediately connects this image to the acts of torture and disappearance by the military regime officially hidden by the Ley de Caducidad but reflected in the images of a dead body hidden under the peaceful scenery of the color image. In this sense, the opening of the color image via Pagliano’s aesthetic interventions functions as a political act that evokes the violation of human rights by the state that lies beneath the façade of impunity for military personnel in the present, but does so without any specific reference to dictatorship. In another panel personal memories appear to be the focus, echoing the approach to memory that guides the entire Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo

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Figure 9. Marta Pagliano, Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo installation at MUME, 2013. Author photo.

installation. The left side of the panel consists of a black-​and-​white image of a seated older woman looking directly at the spectator placed on top of a large colorful image of hills (figure 10). The image is repeated in a fragmented way on what appear to be blinds, tracing notions of simultaneity and multiplicity in engagement with the past. Pagliano again uses brightly colored drawings that bleed from the black-​and-​white image into a color photograph of a natural landscape, here a blue stream moving though hills and opening up into the black-​and-​white image of the woman. The woman in the picture might be Pagliano’s mother, just as the younger woman staring at the camera in other panels in the exhibit might be her sister, who was tortured by the military government.48 On one level the exhibit explores Pagliano’s memories of dictatorship and the effects it had on her family, yet does so in a way that does not construct a counternarrative of heroic resistance by the militant Left. However, this information is not explicitly provided to spectators, which further opens up the subjective interpretation of the panels and allows for divergeant connections with each piece.

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Figure 10. Marta Pagliano, Espacio/Lugar/Tiempo installation at MUME, 2013. Author photo.

The natural landscapes that appear in the color photographs are not easily identifiable; they are not specific to Uruguay and thus open themselves to heterogeneous conceptualizations of space and place. The only thing that marks the connection to the dictatorship in Uruguay is the installation of the images at MUME; the images themselves refer only obliquely to issues of memory and human rights, and no textual framing is provided. One must engage the visual layers interacting in each panel to construct an interpretation, denying any facile call to bear witness to horror or act politically through a pedagogical aesthetic intervention. The pieces explore the borders of various artistic mediums, including photography, drawing, street art, traditional painting, and computer-​ generated images, focusing on spectatorial perspective and subjective simultaneity while only implicitly tracing the themes of memory and human rights. As intimated in the title of the installation, the photographs articulate multiple spatial temporalities, tracing the complex interactions between past and present that are inherent in any act of memory, as well as the contingent nature

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of the relationship between aesthetic interventions and political action. The portrayal of the effects of dictatorship on families, often articulated through childhood memories of those who were very young during the military regime, is a common alternative discourse presented in temporary installations at MUME. One such example is Angeles Martínez’s 2011 installation Filigranas (Filagrees), part of a larger project on memory that has appeared at cultural centers throughout Uruguay. As installed at MUME, Filigranas consists of a collection of framed embroidered cloths made by Martínez’s mother, accompanied by a film that uses thread as a metaphor for memory. The installation focuses on the experiences of family members of political prisoners through Martínez’s reflection on the effects of her brother’s incarceration on her parents, herself, and her other siblings. At the center of the installation sits an embroidered cloth bag inscribed with the name and cell number of her brother, Julio, connected by thread to the ceiling and the projector screen. The family used the bag to carry letters and other personal objects, some of which are included in the exhibit and in the video installation, to Julio while he was at Penal Libertad. The film opens with a short quote framing the piece as a connection between individual and collective memory: “Family memories, in tense and intense simultaneity with collective memory.”49 The installation includes images and objects from the family home in San José, including a photograph of a young man looking out the window, his face hidden, possibly Julio. There are letters to her incarcerated brother from family members, a diary, a blanket, sweaters, and other objects made by her mother. The film presents the intricacies of the embroidered cloths and the thread itself through shots taken at varied angles. Some threads are tangled, others are unbundled, but all evoke the notion of thread as both a material and symbolic object that can connect, become undone, and be mended. In this sense, thread symbolizes memory itself, connections made and unmade, always already falling apart and sewn together. While the exhibit focuses on the memories evoked by material objects from the artist’s family, the pieces (thread, clothes, embroideries, etc.) spark personal connections and memories for the spectators, and thus offer alternative notions of collective memory excluded from the permanent exhibit’s recuperation of the actions of the political Left. This personal approach to postdictatorial memory by those who experienced the period as young children is echoed in Reparación

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(Reparation) by Gabriela Leyla Martínez Barbosa. Installed at MUME in 2010, Reparación consists of several copies of a picture of Gabriela when she was approximately four years old, placed in a small book at the center of a room with two accompanying texts—­a brief autobiographical explanation and a poem written by Martínez Barbosa. The original image, which is stained, faded, and torn on the sides, appears in various states throughout the book, ending with a “repaired” image that visually echoes the simultaneous meanings of reparación: monetary reparations for the victims of state violence, healing the trauma of lives destroyed during the dictatorship, and the physical mending of the photograph. The texts, which also appear on the wall behind the installation, provide the framework for spectators to engage with the notion of reparation. The brief biography informs visitors that the artist’s older brothers were imprisoned during the dictatorship and alludes to her experience as a young child looking for them at police stations, hospitals, and prisons. She recalls experiencing a feeling of “bewilderment of not knowing where they were” and for the first time “the fear of death, sadness, and desperation,” articulating these as memories that “sometimes, I would like to be able to forget.”50 This provides a framework to interpret the poem that explores these feelings through a narrative voice that intertwines childhood memories with the perspective of adulthood. The poem begins by highlighting the effects of the past on the present—­“Today so full of yesterday / so, so yesterday”—­and then notes that the united family (“mom, dad, BROTHERS”) was fractured by the dictatorship: “desaparecidos.”51 The sounds and feelings experienced by the child then appear during what could be interpreted either as the family’s search for her brothers or military personnel coming to search their home: “Overturn the drawer, the heart / feelings, sense, sense / buzzing / buzz, buzz, buzz / empty / here he is! he’s not here! here! not here!”52 The sense of uneasiness and stress is accentuated by the repeated use of alliteration evoking knocking on doors (“toc,toc,toc,tan,tan,tan,zum zum zum”)53 and the final two lines (“Se fue [it’s/he’s gone]. . . . / Shhh. . . .”)54 trace both the act of consoling a scared child in the poem and the attempt to overcome the traumas of the past as an adult via aesthetic narrativization. The testimonial tenor of Reparación is itself a form of self-​reparation, as Martínez Barbosa attempts to work through the traumas of childhood that she didn’t fully understand. As in the Filigranas installation, this is an aesthetic intervention that explores nonmilitant subjects of postdictatorship through the experiences of family members affected by

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the disappearance or imprisonment of political prisoners. The articulation of these experiences through the memory of a child or adolescent, however, creates a more open interaction with the experiences of dictatorship, particularly for younger visitors who are learning about the period for the first time. Echoing Jelin’s work on the intergenerational dialogue inherent in postdictatorial memory, using experiences that a young person can empathize with (fear, death, absence of family members) and articulating them in a poetic language evoking childhood create a more open subjective space for visitors to make connections with their lives in the present than the social science–­based pedagogical approach in the permanent exhibit. This subjective turn to experiences and perspectives of the postdictatorship generation does not negate the political acts of parents and older family members who were killed or disappeared during the dictatorship. Instead, as Ana Ros suggests, “by recovering the ‘human’ dimension of the desaparecidos, the members of this group can reflect on their parent’s decisions and motivations in relation to their own lives. They also reconnect the desaparecidos to the rest of society that otherwise tends to perceive their stories as foreign to their experiences and everyday life.”55 In this sense, cultural production focused on the nonmilitant experiences of family members, especially critical perspectives articulated by the postdictatorship generation, can serve to displace the heroic/victimized martyrs of human rights in the past and open up new forms of political subjectivation through postdictatorial memory. While installations such as Reparación and Filigranas explore nonmilitant experiences in a language that moves beyond the hero/victim narrative and creates alternative ways for spectators to engage with their lives, they still ultimately focus on specific experiences related to the military dictatorship and its effects. Other installations at MUME, however, offer an important exploration of the limits of both politics and aesthetics in postdictatorship, and thus open up the processes of subjectivation beyond the ethical immediacy and representational mediation focused on militant political subjects of dictatorship that dominate the permanent exhibit. Two such audiovisual installations, Héctor Solari’s Libertad and José Pilone’s El límite, explore imprisonment, but do so through aesthetic forms that do not directly speak to the experiences of political prisoners, but rather focus on the sensorial aspects of incarceration while playing with the subjective positioning of the spectators. Presented at MUME in late 2010, Solari’s Libertad offers a nontestimonial engagement with experiences of imprisonment through an

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Figure 11. Still from Héctor Solari, Libertad installation at MUME, 2010.

experimental audiovisual installation that combines photography, drawing, film, and sonorous play. While the title references Libertad Prison, the piece includes no specific references to dictatorship, political prisoners, or resistance. By moving a video camera back and forth over black-​and-​white drawings,56 Solari evokes a darkened, enclosed space with light peeking in through what appears to be a barred window, creating the experience of a prison cell from a first-​person perspective. The camera focuses on incomprehensible shapes and figures on what appear to be cell walls, as it moves back and forth in an extreme close-​ up of the drawing, as if looking through the eyes of a prisoner in a cell. Spectators see random markings on a wall intermittently bathed in light from the barred window above, with cuts, dark lines, and shadows splashed across the “canvas” (figure 11). The camera movements are dizzying, as it pans around the cell and gradually moves back and forth in focus, zooming in to get a closer look at specific sections of the wall, then zooming out to take in the space as a whole. One is struck by the contrasting dark shadows and spots of bright light. Indiscernible figures appear: a window, spots on the wall, a waist-​high bar running

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along one side of the cell. All of this is done by camera work on a drawing that merely evokes a cell; it is never obvious that the image is in fact a prison enclosure. The audio soundtrack augments the tension created by the camera, with a suspenseful whirring noise constantly echoing in the background, interrupted by intermittent hammer-​like sounds and momentary skips in the audio soundtrack. Later, a sound resembling an electric current begins to repeat on top of the whirring audio, continuing to create a stressful ambiance. Throughout the piece, there are momentary juxtapositions of three men in uniform, the guards of the perceived prison space, standing outside and looking back at the camera. This image pops in and out of focus throughout the video, instances of memory evoked within the experience inside the cell. The first time, spectators view their faces and catch a glimpse of an open field behind them. The second time, the camera focuses on the foreground, highlighting their legs and feet while eliding their faces from view, then fading back to the cell to focus on what appear to be bars on the window. Then a new, hazy image of a large building with windows appears, intimating a return to the memories of outside the prison cell, perhaps the day of arrival. The camera remains out of focus as it zooms back and forth between close-​ups of exterior windows, some of which have white sheets hanging from them, and a momentary long shot that exposes a piece of bright sky illuminating what appears to be a cloud of smoke. All the while, the sound effects resembling the buzz of power lines intensify, and spectators get the sense that the audiovisual work is about to reach a climax. This comes with a long shot that exposes the entire building seemingly engulfed in flames, with large billows of smoke rising from the roof and emanating from the windows. The camera then twists and turns, and moves back and forth as it provides detailed close-​ups of random spots of the building and long shots of the building at different angles. The film concludes with silence and one last pan right on the image of the building, which is revealed as a photograph of Penal Libertad. Solari’s Libertad moves beyond both the narrative of heroic resistance and the spectacle of torture and suffering that dominate postdictatorial cultural production, and instead explores oblique forms of engagement with the experience of imprisonment. Although the series in which Libertad is included is called Catástrofes, the video installation does not reproduce an ethical call to bear witness to the catastrophe of the past. While the title of the piece refers to Penal Libertad, which viewers immediately connect with dictatorship and political prisoners, the

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aesthetic interventions in the piece do not focus on testimonies about imprisonment, resistance, or the spectacle of torture and disappearance that have become the dominant forms of human rights discourse in postdictatorial culture. The focus on confused, fragmented sensorial experiences in a perceived prison cell explores a human response to any given enclosure or imprisonment, one that does not solely pertain to political prisoners. The odd sensations produced by the combination of indecipherable shadows and sounds, interspersed with momentary flashes of memory recalling sights prior to entering the cell, engage spectators in ways not afforded by the museological approach of the “Las cárceles” section of the permanent exhibit and the countermemory narrative of resistance by the political Left. This aesthetic engagement with notions of memory and human rights opens up our perceptions as to what these concepts mean, and creates the space to connect the experiences of political prisoners at the Penal Libertad to the experiences of any incarcerated subject. The exploration of the limits of dominant notions of politics and aesthetics related to postdictatorial culture is echoed in another temporary installation exploring the concept of imprisonment: José Pilone’s performance art video El límite (The limit).57 The audiovisual piece was installed at MUME in 2011, in a cellar that is accessible only by descending stairs on the outside of the building. The installation consisted of a large cell door taken from Cárcel Central Miguelete, an old jail located in the heart of Montevideo that held both common and political prisoners during the dictatorship, including many who were later transferred to Punta Carretas and Penal Libertad.58 Upon entering the small room, one spectator at a time looked through the peephole in the cell door to view the performance art video playing on a screen behind the door. Importantly, Pilone also used the abandoned cells of the former Miguelete jail site to make El límite, marking both a symoblic and material connection between a physical space of incarceration and a performative interpretation of the effects of imprisonment presented at MUME. El límite is a combination of stop-​motion photography and film footage, with Pilone recreating the experiences of an inmate in a cell—­an anonymous incarcerated subject, not specifically a political prisoner during the dictatorship. The majority of the still images appear in rapid succession, each lasting approximately three seconds. As the video begins, Pilone appears dressed in a prison uniform and stares directly at the viewer, alerting us that he sees he is being observed and challenging

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our positionality as voyeurs outside of the door. We observe the small cell behind him, with cement shelves integrated into the peeling walls and a shuttered window overhead with one brick removed to let in light. There are then two stop-​motion photographs of the prisoner walking toward the opening, which morphs into film footage of this same action with an audio background of birds chirping and the rumble of a city in the distance, interrupted by a brief image of the cell door from the prisoner’s perspective. Then there are three more stop-​motion images from this position through the peephole looking out onto the prison floor, which is bathed in the shadows of prison bars above, then a video clip of the prisoner walking toward the back of the cell. The initial image of Pilone staring directly at the camera then appears once again, followed by a second shot with his head bowed to look toward the floor, and then a photograph of his feet seen from above. Suddenly, a buzzer sounds, the image darkens, and Pilone’s feet and legs appear again—­now bare, dirty, and covered with what appear to be lesions. There are then several blurred stop-​motion shots of indiscernible aspects of the cell, interrupted by a selfie-​style image of the prisoner. This play between varied subject positions and camera perspectives continues throughout the piece, calling into question the capacity of testimonial or documentary narratives to fully express the experience of being imprisoned by exploring the border between the inside and outside. The next images are wide shots of the halls and interior of Miguelete, providing spectators with a framework to interpret the prisoner’s location through exterior views of the cells and floor-​to-​ceiling bars separating one wing of the jail from another. Like Solari’s piece, El límite includes a soundtrack of odd, reverberating wavelike sounds that create anxiety on the part of the spectators, and these sounds are accentuated at this moment of the video, accompanied again by the buzzer. This intimates a change in the tone of the piece, as the defiant gaze of the initial image changes to shame, despair, and helplessness. This is augmented through multiple shots of a nude Pilone, facing the wall away from the camera with his hands behind him as if tied behind his back. The shots of the nude prisoner in the cell are interspersed with additional images of the halls of Miguelete that play with multiple levels of perspective in the space. There are photographs of random pieces of the prison’s architecture, such as overhead lights, metal beams, paint peeling away from the ceiling, and prison bars. These images are juxtaposed with the series of nude shots that evoke the complete vulnerability of the limit experience in a prison cell. In

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one image, a nude Pilone jerks his head backward toward the camera, seemingly writhing in pain—­evoking both the physical suffering of being tortured and the mental agony of confinement. In another, his body is turned slightly toward the camera so that he leans against the wall, his upper torso exposed, apparently fallen from exhaustion. There is an image where his kneeling, nude body appears out of focus, and another where he is fully exposed to the spectators, facing the camera with hands behind his back and head tilted to the side and back, as if he had just undergone a harrowing experience. Another out-​of-​focus shot of a nude Pilone appears, kneeling and half turned toward the camera with his head flailing backward again. The perspective changes, and we see a point-​of-​view shot of a hand reaching up toward the empty space in the blocked window where the light shines in, a blurred image of white nothingness, and another selfie-​style shot of a shirtless Pilone staring directly into the camera once again. At this moment, the image of his feet and bare legs appears again, immediately followed by a change in hue and the return of the photograph of his feet while wearing a prison uniform. This gives viewers the sense that the intense moment of mental and physical suffering is over. The reverberating sound effects stop, and a brief film clip of Pilone lifting his head and staring back at the camera closes the video in silence—­but now the door is behind him and the spectator is inside the cell. The continuous play with subjective positions in El límite challenges the viewer on various levels. The spectacle of the mental and physical suffering of torture is turned on its head as the prisoner’s gaze functions as a critique of both our voyeuristic observation of suffering and our own failure to stop it. By placing the spectator inside the cell in the final shot, Pilone points to the notion that all human beings face limit experiences in their lives, beyond the actual experience of life in a prison cell. The installation evokes connections to any personal (or collective) crisis endured by the spectators and, in this manner, creates the conditions for an affective relation to the experience of imprisonment without reproducing the spectacle of torture or articulating the experience in the rhetoric of heroic resistance. Pilone’s aesthetic intervention thus creates an open interpretation of incarceration, utilizing performance art to explore the limits of the concept of prison in relation to postdictatorial memory and the subjects of human rights. The material presence of a cell door from Miguelete adds to the heterogeneous and simultaneous subject positions presented in the piece.

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Unlike the doors from Penal Libertad in the permanent exhibit, the Miguelete door in El límite is presented not as a relic from the past but as an active component of the installation that both separates and connects spectators and prisoner. While the door physically separates viewers from the video installation, it also evokes the symbolic limit of the capacity to understand the experiences of a prisoner via testimonial art, despite an assumed ethical desire to empathize with these subjects. The small, enclosed space of the cellar where the piece was installed adds to the sense of imprisonment explored in the audiovideo installation, echoed in the final shot placing the spectator inside the cell with Pilone. In this sense, El límite explores borders between art and politics in postdictatorial discourse that delineate accepted forms of engagement with state violence against political prisoners and the disappeared. It recognizes and incorporates in its form “the incalculable tension between political dissensuality and aesthetic indifference,”59 the notion that there is no straight path between artistic form and political action, as Rancière and Richard argue. Pilone instead creates a performative spectatorial experience around the limits of aesthetic and political representations of torture, imprisonment, and witnessing, and in doing so, refuses to foreclose these subjects within the discourse of nunca más.

Politics, Aesthetics, and the Subjects of Human Rights in Postdictatorship Through the relationship between temporary aesthetic interventions and permanent exhibits in cultural spaces dedicated to memory and human rights we are able to explore nonhegemonic articulations of these concepts in postdictatorial culture. Interventions by such artists as Pagliano, Martínez, Solari, and Pilone disrupt the established distribution of the sensible related to the discourse of nunca más, opening up the possible subjects of memory and human rights beyond the foundational figure of heroic/victimized political militants of state terror. They create the space to explore the experiences of nonmilitant family members during dictatorship—­parents and siblings who were affected in different ways by their loved ones’ imprisonment, death, or “disappearance.” Art installations create the opportunity for an intergenerational dialogue between the postdictatorship generation and those who lived through military regimes as adults, proposing critical interpretations

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and problematizing idealized notions about the past. Temporary exhibits presented in these cultural centers explore the portrayal of militant political subjects in alternative ways that are not afforded by the dominant countermemory discourse of the permanent exhibits. This is the case with Ibero Gutiérrez, who, like Alípio Freire and Sérgio Sister in Brazil, was involved in both political militancy and artistic production through poetry, painting, and mixed-​media art collages during the dictatorship in Uruguay. As such, he is an ideal figure through which to examine the contingent relationship between aesthetics and politics in postdictatorial culture and to problematize dominant notions of militancy and human rights portrayed in the permanent exhibit at MUME. MUME houses Ibero Gutiérrez’s personal diaries, artwork, and poetry books, donated to the center by his family. In September–­ October 2009, MUME coordinated and installed the three-​part exhibit Ibero Gutiérrez: Juventud, arte y política, presented at three locations in Montevideo: MUME, the National Library (Biblioteca Nacional), and the College of Arts at the National University of Uruguay (Facultad de Arte–­Universidad Nacional de la República). The exhibits presented different aspects of Gutiérrez’s life and work: a historical and biographical component, his visual art, and his literary production; his personal diaries and artwork done as a teenager; and his satirical humor and photography. I focus here on the framing of Gutiérrez’s life and work in the installations as a point of inflection in the relationship between art and politics, or as Hugo Achugar puts it in his introduction to the exhibit, “Homo politucs versus Homo aestheticus, the tense relation (or lack thereof), the (un)friendly relation, implies not only the original will of human beings, but also the eye of one who reads or the ear of one who listens.”60 This echoes the conceptualization of the relationship between politics and aesthetics laid out by Rancière: that there is no guarantee of a relationship between aesthetic production and political action, but rather “an incalculable tension” among the artist, the work, and its interpretation by readers or spectators, which creates the conditions of possibility for heterogeneous moments of political subjectivation. However, many of the introductory texts and essays that appear in the accompanying exhibition catalog present Gutiérrez through the same nostalgic rhetoric of the militant Left that characterized the permanent exhibit at MUME, presenting him as a martyr in the resistance in the name of democracy and justice, his “life shortened by the death

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squad that society will overcome with the light of the love of art and politics to say ‘never again.’ ”61 This domestication of the relationship between art and politics using the rhetoric of nunca más negates the “tense relation” between homo politicus and homo aestheticus alluded to by Achugar, presenting it as a relationship always already turned toward the search for memory and truth related to the catastrophe of the dictatorial past. This again places highly visible subjects such as Gutiérrez at the center of notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorship while further marginalizing those nonsubjects of rights that were the focus of Gutierrez’s own political acts and aesthetic works exploring social justice. Yet, other texts in the book do attempt to trace Gutiérrez’s understanding of the relationship between politics and aesthetics in a critical manner that offers a deeper engagement with the artist/militant’s life and work. Essays by Elbio Ferrario (“Juventud, arte y política” [Youth, art, and politics]) and Alba Platero (“Ibero Gutiérrez creador integral, una estética de la existencia en un contexto de alto riesgo” [Ibero Gutiérrez, total creator: An aesthetic of existence in a high-​risk context]), for example, focus on the tenuous interaction between aesthetics and politics in Gutiérrez’s work and for the 1968 generation as a whole. Ferrario argues that for youth at this time, “art and politics interacted, united, and contested one another, without losing their own particular qualities.”62 For her part, Platero suggests that this relationship created a new form of “revolutionary art . . . whose keys to creation not only didn’t respect the limits between artistic categories, but also spheres of political action: culture and militancy.”63 This simultaneity of aesthetics and politics embodied by Gutiérrez is evident in numerous pieces of visual art and poetry drafts presented in the exhibits.64 These include paintings related to the death of Ernesto “Che” Guevara—­one a neorealist interpretation of the famous image of Guevara on his deathbed in Bolivia, another recalling the style of Uruguayan constructivist artist Joaquín Torres García. The latter abstract painting consists of a series of fragmented shapes of blue, red, green, yellow, and white demarcated by black lines and circles. At the center of the piece is a half-​legible newspaper headline, CHE is painted in black on the bottom half of the piece while VIVE (HE LIVES) appears twice in the upper portion of the painting. We can surmise from this piece that the utopic dream of the “new man [hombre nuevo]” and socialism associated with the figure of Che Guevara indeed lives on for Gutiérrez, despite Che’s physical death. The stylistic allusion to Torres García is also provocative, given that painter’s dedication to creating a

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“Latin American” artistic philosophy and form, which has many parallels with the anti-​imperialism associated with Guevara and the Cuban Revolution. Many of Gutiérrez’s collages and drawings critique institutions of government, the church, consumerism, and imperialism while referencing international pop culture and counterculture movements. For example, one collage features a clipped magazine image of a bare-​ breasted woman with her arms spread open at the center of a painting of colorful geometric lines. This forms part of a cross, with the letters INRI written at the top and a Coca-​Cola advertisement as a type of crown on the woman’s head. Here Gutiérrez plays with the limits of aesthetic form through a mixed-​media collage while also criticizing the rise of global capitalism and the institution of the church, and replacing the figure of Jesus on the crucifix with a direct reference to the sexual liberation movement. Another collage continues this critique of consumer culture via magazine ads for scotch and cigarettes juxtaposed with images of scantily clad women selling the products, including one whose nude body is covered with U.S. dollars. In another painting in the Cebolla de vídrio series, Gutiérrez creates a visual tribute to the Beatles’ “Glass Onion,” in which lyrics superimposed on an abstract, colorful painting of a peeling onion are observed by two drawn nude figures turned away from the viewer. The male figure has his hand placed on the female figure’s buttocks, while her hand reaches across his body and out of view down toward his genitals. This piece and others like it in the collection reference counterculture, the sexual revolution, and international pop culture, all visible parts of the daily lives of educated, middle-​class political militants such as Gutiérrez. In another mixed-​media piece, Gutiérrez juxtaposes clipped magazine images of three African children and former U.S. president Richard Nixon. On Nixon’s forehead is written USA with a swastika substituted for the letter S, and to the left of this image an assault rifle points directly at Nixon’s head. Here we observe both a critique of US interventionist foreign policy, which includes the spread of capitalism, and solidarity with the unnamed victims of imperialism, war, and geopolitical and economic battles. The magazine images are fragmented, cut into multiple strips and then pasted over colorful broad lines painted in a disjointed fashion that leaves large amounts of blank space. The use of a mixed-​media collage explores the limits of different artistic forms, placing painting, drawing, and clipped images into dialogue to create a “critical clash” alluded to by Rancière.

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This is particularly important because of the way Gutiérrez presents the three African children, recuperating them as active, political subjects and not helpless victims of violence and poverty to whom the rest of the world must bear witness. He does this through the gazes of the children, two of whom stare directly at us, challenging our implicit participation in creating the systemic violence to which their lives are subjected. The third child, frail and malnourished but with a clenched fist, stares defiantly at the image of Nixon, his head turned upward through the artist’s cut-​and-​paste intervention. Gutiérrez thus presents the three African children as subjects of human rights and social justice, disrupting the rhetoric of the hero/victim figure that guides the portrayal of students and militants in the permanent exhibit. In this sense, the presentation of Gutiérrez’s artistic works before his murder by the Comando Caza Tupamaros reorients viewers to those nonsubjects of nunca más on whose behalf he acted politically and artistically. These pieces disrupt the notion of a heroic “student martyr” as the subject of human rights and memory in postdictatorship and instead trace Gutiérrez’s engagement with these themes in ways that do not correspond with the discourse of leftist resistance in the name of democracy. In this sense, the temporary exhibit of Ibero Gutiérrez’s work traces the constitutive exclusion of the discourse of never again by exploring the heterogeneous relationship between politics and aesthetics embodied in the life and work of the artist/militant. Yet there is another contradiction in the way the curators portray the radical productive capacities of art and politics: they are consistently presented as pertaining to the 1968 generation, as an index for that period, exemplified by Platero’s comment that “the situation in this period allowed for connecting artistic and political action.”65 While the intent is to portray the heterodox relationship between art and politics in terms of dissent and militancy during the dictatorship, framing this dissent as pertaining to the past negates the actuality of the relationship between politics and aesthetics as a viable process of political subjectivation. At the same time, Platero contradicts this in her final appraisal of the exhibition and its reception in the present: “The work of Ibero the artist/revolutionary is a living monument of memory, its multiple aspects of cre/acción [simultaneous artistic creation and militant political action] form a generational bridge about themes that do not deserve to be buried [in the past]. Making this work public will allow us to reintroduce healthy, participatory dialogues where we are not mere spectators but rather

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‘creative receivers,’ as a form of resistance to forgetting from the present and towards the future.”66 These comments are correct, but perhaps not in the way Platero intended. She seems to be channeling the rhetoric of nunca más here, noting that the Gutiérrez collection works to activate memory, dialogue, and cre/acción across generations of spectators as a resistance to forgetting the “recent past.” I contend that the presentation of Gutiérrez’s poetry and artwork in fact undermines his elevation as a martyr in postdictatorial discourse, reorienting the focus to economic and social justice for marginalized populations as the subjects of human rights. This counteracts the foundational discourse of nunca más and the narrative turn toward heroic/victimized figures whose political rights were violated by the military regimes, bringing attention back to the heterogeneous, anonymous nonsubjects of human rights that inspired the political acts of individuals such as Gutiérrez. There is a disagreement, in the Rancierean sense, between the conceptualization of human rights presented in Gutiérrez’s artistic work and that used to narrativize his murder in the permanent exhibit at MUME. The exhibit presents Gutiérrez’s torture and execution as a human rights violation—­another martyred victim in the struggle for freedom and democracy. There is a dissonance in the portrayal of kidnapping and murder by some members of the MLN-​T as acts of resistance in the war against the repressive regime and its paramilitary supporters, while the murder of MLN-​T members, workers, and students is articulated in terms of human rights violations by the state. This disjunction is connected with the argument laid out in the introduction to the permanent exhibit that of those who resisted the dictatorship, “nobody violated human rights [ninguno violó los derechos humanos]”67 because human rights violations, by definition, are always perpetrated by the state. This echoes the turn to the discourse of global humanitarianism with its civil and political notions of human rights and the countermemory discourse that portrays ex-​militants as resisting dictatorship in the name of democracy. While I am not suggesting a reiteration of the dos demonios theory here, the qualification of the use of kidnapping and murder by members of the MLN-​T as “resistance” while the same tactics employed by the military regime are seen as human rights violations is problematic.68 First this enables absurd right-​wing responses that place the violent acts committed by armed revolutionary groups on an equal footing with systematic repression, incarceration, and disappearance by the military

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governments. But beyond this, the idea that human rights violations are committed only by the state contradicts the notion of social and economic rights that guided the actions of those students, workers, party activists, and MLN-​T members who suffered from state terror. As seen in both Gutiérrez’s work and his murder by paramilitary actors, human rights are not defined solely in relation to the state. Human rights violations can be transnational or part of the global economic system; they can be perpetuated by state or nonstate actors; they can be highly visible acts against well-​known political subjects or daily, invisible violence experienced by the most marginalized members of any given society. The closed definition of human rights violations perpetrated solely by the state is especially problematic for a cultural space such as MUME with an institutional mission to promote human rights in the present. The notion of human rights in the permanent exhibit at MUME is articulated through a melancholic narrative of political subjects always already fused to past catastrophe. The countless stories of disappearance, detention, torture, censorship, and other examples of state violence during the recent past remain at the center of the knot between memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. Our task as cultural critics is to interrogate and undo this bind, to return the notions of memory and human rights to their difference in order to make visible the processes determining who or what counts as the subject of these concepts in postdictatorship. This does not negate the importance of recuperating the memory of political activism under dictatorship or continuing the fight for juridical truth and justice for the disappeared in the face of democratically sanctioned impunity for military personnel. It does, however, reopen the processes of political subjectivation that have stagnated in the ethical fusion of nunca más. The tenuous and often contradictory relationship between politics and aesthetics that is inherent in cultural spaces such as MUME is key to this work, creating moments where nonvisible subjects of memory and human rights can appear in postdictatorial culture. No current cultural space explores these tensions better while maintaining the “open predicates” of political subjectivation than the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires, Argentina, located at the former site of the most infamous detention and torture center in the region.

Chapter 4

The Subjects of Memory and Human Rights Aesthetics and Politics at the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos in Buenos Aires

Located on the immense grounds of the former Navy Mechanics School (Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada, ESMA)1 on a major thoroughfare in an easily accessed upper-​middle-​class neighborhood of Buenos Aires, the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos (Espacio Memoria or EMPDDHH) is an ambitious cultural project that embodies what Argentine photographer and activist Marcelo Brodsky has referred to as “memory in construction [memoria en construcción].” In a book of the same name, Brodsky, an original member of the committee tasked with creating the cultural space at the former ESMA, collected a number of essays and images from human rights organizations, survivors, families, writers, artists, and intellectuals from within Argentina and abroad to present the complex debates about what do with the detention and torture center. The book traces the tensions between testimony and witnessing, preservation and renewal, past and present, memory and forgetting, and competing notions of justice, human rights, politics, and aesthetics that are inherent in spaces associated with mass extermination. As Brodksy suggests, “Memory in construction is a process, a collective journey, an ongoing discussion. While the never-​ending struggle for truth and justice continues, the construction of collective memory proceeds on its path 141

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of overlapping subjectivities.”2 This vision of a cultural space where multiple subjectivities are placed into dialogue foreshadows the current practices for the Espacio Memoria—­a diverse space that engages with the multitudinous and often conflicting perspectives on the concepts of memory and human rights in postdictatorship.3 The mission statement and institutional goals for the EMPDDHH link the discourses of memory and human rights via the foundational notion of nunca más: “Contributing to the permanent memory of this tragic time in Argentine history as a collective practice of memory, with the goal of teaching present and future generations about the irrepairable consequences brought on by substituting the Rule of Law with the use of violence by those who exercise State power. Additionally, it shall communicate that the commitment to life and unconditional respect for human rights must be the fundamental values of a just and caring society.”4 This mission is presented on the official EMPDDHH website (espaciomemoria.gov.ar) and on a large panel at the entrance to the complex, which serves as a guide for visitors as they engage the diverse facets of the cultural space.5 As seen with the MDR and the MUME, the EMPDDHH mission fuses the concepts of memory and human rights, articulating its goals of maintaining and transmitting memory about violence committed by the state during the “recent past” across generations while contributing to the formation of a culture of human rights in the present as the foundation of a just, democratic society. Implicit in this discussion are notions of citizenship, nation, and what appears to be a reiteration of the foundational heroic/victimized subjects of militants and desaparecidos always already at the center of a focus on “the value of human rights that were violated during the period of State Terrorism, its consequences, and the reaffirmation of never again.”6 Yet what sets the EMPDDHH apart from its counterparts in Montevideo and São Paulo is its focus on heterogeneous approaches to memory and human rights and their relationship in postdictatorship. This is inscribed in the institutional organization of several constituent groups at the site, creating a cultural space that moves beyond the rhetoric of heroic resistance and ethical victimhood to open up possibilities of continuous critical engagement with these themes across disciplines and generations. “In this way, in one complex a number of activities come together: the care for sites of high symbolic value, the management of documents and archives, academic and political debate, research and publications, the promotion of public policy

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related to human rights, and the promotion of different cultural expressions.”7 This mission is carried out through the diverse activities of various human rights organizations, government and nongovernmental entities, researchers, artists, photographers, writers, and visitors to the space. While there has already been much academic research on the former ESMA site—­largely focused on its history and the role of Presidents Néstor Kirchner and Cristina Kirchner in placing the site under civilian control and providing federal funding to establish it as a space of cultural memory, the buildings used for detention and torture during the dictatorship, the varied activities of the different human rights organizations housed at the site (such as the two Madres de Plaza de Mayo groups and H.I.J.O.S), and exhibits and archives related to the disappeared8—­little research has been done on the interaction between the permanent and temporary visual culture installations at the site, and how they explore the tensions between memory and human rights in postdictatorship. Thus, my focus in this chapter is on the interaction between politics and aesthetics at the Espacio Memoria, which, as Horacio González suggests, is inherent in the very debate on how to construct memory at the site: “Without a doubt, within this debate the vines of art and politics are entwined once again . . . the answer to the enigma of the Esma depends upon how we tie them together. . . . A historicity coupled with its antithesis, its pending and visible void . . . while also revealing an interspersing of the visible and the invisible, and a pedagogical reinvention.”9 Through this relationship, the Espacio Memoria creates the conditions for nonsubjects of the political to undo the closed ethical relationship between memory and human rights forged through the notion of nunca más, while tracing the subjects of economic and social rights that form its constitutive outside.

Touring the Site of Horror The draw for most first-​time visitors to the Espacio Memoria is the site most directly connected with the detention, torture, and disappearance of over five thousand individuals during the military dictatorship: the Officers’ Quarters (Casino de Oficiales), renamed the Site of Memory (Sitio de Memoria) since 2014. Small guided tour groups can view the building where most of the torture and detention occurred in the ESMA complex. The groups are led by graduate students who provide

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basic information on the detention and torture that occurred in the space. There is an interesting dynamic to these groups, often composed of people who were tortured in the space or knew someone who was; Argentines who experienced the period first hand; younger generations who learned about the military dictatorship primarily through family stories, school texts, or cultural production; and international tourists, students, and scholars. The guides allow participants to speak throughout the visit, often letting individuals tell the rest of the group about their personal experiences and impressions of this period, supplementing and at times contradicting the information provided by the guide.10 Informational panels explain the physical layout and what occurred in the space during the dictatorship, and groups can visit areas of the building that have remained largely untouched since the military left in 2004. Like other former detention and torture centers, the military physically changed much of the interior of the building in an attempt to hide the evidence of detention and torture and to undermine the survivors’ descriptions of the space to the Argentine justice system and international human rights organizations. Tour groups pass through the ground floor, where new detainees were brought in, questioned, and documented by military personnel, as well as rooms where pregnant women gave birth during their imprisonment at ESMA, only to have their children taken from them and “adopted” by military families. The groups also visit the “Capuchita” attic space, where detainees were placed in small cages before being “disappeared” through the infamous “death flights [vuelos de muerte]” over the nearby Rio de la Plata or buried in mass graves such as the Campo de Mayo. Visitor interaction with these spaces could be perceived as what Laurie Beth Clark has called “trauma tourism,”11 but the moments of individual and collective contemplation and reflection upon the violent acts committed in the space also enter into dialogue with broader notions of human rights explored in other parts of the EMPDDHH complex. The immense size of the complex and the interaction among spaces that trace memory and human rights in diverse ways allow the Espacio Memoria to move beyond mere trauma tourism and to evade criticism of the recent boom in sites of memory and memorials focused on atrocities of the past as ultimately being implicated in “neoliberal globalization’s geography of amnesia.”12 This latter argument has been eloquently made by Jens Andermann in ways that complement my critique of the notion of never again as implicated in the turn to liberal humanitarianism and the transition of the military regimes. Andermann

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underscores the limits and exclusionary nature of the global turn to “memorial museums” predicated upon notions of democracy based on “market globalization as the precondition and horizon of memorial representation,”13 while excluding “those memory practices that continue to identify with the victims’ very different political agendas, re-​asserting these precisely at the site of their projected erasure and seeking to turn this imaginative and performatic identification into a practice of ongoing struggle against capitalism and its effects.”14 This critique of the dominant museological mode of commemorating past atrocities within the discursive parameters laid out by “democratic consensus”15 echoes the arguments made by Susana Draper that we must have a more “critical approach to  .  .  . examining how the extermination of political dissidence is a condition of possibility of the global economy in which the CDC [Clandestine Detention Center] becomes a site for global tourism.”16 The Espacio Memoria makes possible a critical engagement with the global tourism to sites of horror, performing the contradictions between multiple notions of victim and politics and indeed offering a critique of capitalism within the dual goals of recuperating memory of state terror and promoting human rights in the present. This is evident in one of the permanent installations at the EMPDDHH, which consists of fourteen large glass panels that reproduce journalist and writer Rodolfo Walsh’s 1977 Carta abierta a la junta (Open Letter to the Military) denouncing the oppression and violence of the dictatorship (figure 12). Walsh, who was disappeared after the letter’s publication, is one of the most emblematic symbols of resistance to the military regime in Argentina, similar to journalist Vladimir Herzog in Brazil. The installation at the EMPDDHH was designed by Walsh’s friend León Ferrari, an artist known for his biting social critique and aesthetic innovation, who contributed numerous installations at the Espacio Memoria prior to his death in 2013.17 The clear glass panels placed at different angles allow visitors to look beyond the words onto the grounds behind the glass, while also seeing themselves physically mirrored in the letter at certain times of day. In addition, the panels reflect the high-​rise apartment buildings across the street, calling attention to the ESMA’s proximity18 to the daily life of the city and accentuating that the atrocities committed in the space were hidden in plain sight, enabled by what Diana Taylor has referred to as a percepticide19 that infected the Argentine population during the dictatorship. It is essential to point out that this letter not only denounces

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Figure 12. Carta abierta installation at Espacio Memoria, 2013. Author photo.

the censorship, torture, and disappearance of political subjects carried out by the military regime but also argues that their socioeconomic project and the nonvisible victims in the villas miseria who suffered from these policies represent an even greater violation of human rights: “These events, which have shaken the conscience of the civilized world, are not the ones that have brought the greatest suffering upon the Argentine people, nor are they the worst human rights violations that you have committed. This government’s economic policy is the place to look not only for the explanation of your crimes, but also for an even greater atrocity that is leading millions of human beings into planned misery.”20 The letter provides statistics on the economic downturn under the dictatorship and the elimination of social welfare programs that affected the most vulnerable in society, while the military and international corporations profited greatly from the political economy inaugurated by the regime. “It takes only a few hours walking around Greater Buenos Aires to realize that these policies have turned it into a slum [villa miseria] with ten million inhabitants. Cities in semi-​darkness; entire

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neighbourhoods with no running water because monopolies have robbed them of their groundwater; and thousands of blocks turned into one big pothole because you only pave military neighbourhoods and decorate the Plaza de Mayo.”21 This critique of the larger socioeconomic practices of the military government is one element erased by the turn to international humanitarianism and the rhetoric of nunca más at the end of the dictatorship. The inclusion of Walsh’s letter as a permanent exhibit in the Espacio Memoria serves to reopen the critical appraisal of dictatorship and its effects by highlighting the systemic torture and murder of political dissidents, but by also suggesting that the larger economic, social, and political projects established by the military regime in fact constitute a more egregious violation of human rights than those physical acts of violence. The Carta abierta exhibit is installed next to the Sitio de Memoria (Casino de Oficiales), and is often the first thing visitors encounter upon leaving the detention and torture space. Walsh’s biting political and economic critique of the military regime contrasts with the largely depoliticized portrayal of suffering on the tour, highlighting one of many instances of dialogue between alternative approaches to the recent past that appear in the Espacio Memoria. This contradictory engagement with memory and human rights in postdictatorship provides the EMPDDHH with a critical edge that is not present in the MDR and MUME.22

Cuatro Columnas The Four Columns (Cuatro Columnas) building, the most recognizable building at the site, with Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada emblazoned on the façade, once held the offices of the director of the ESMA. Here military training exercises took place in the large gymnasium that opens up to the former central plaza of the complex.23 Upon the transfer of the site to the federal government and the city of Buenos in 2004, the Cuatro Columnas building served as the headquarters for the Space of Memory Institute (Instituto Espacio Memoria, IEM), which was initially charged with the administration of the complex. In 2014, control of the space was given over completely to the federal government, and the IEM was incorporated into the national Advisory Council for Public Memory Policy (Consejo Asesor en Políticas Públicas de la Memoria), leaving the future use of the most iconic building of the ESMA unclear. Prior to the dissolution of the IEM, the Cuatro Columnas building

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housed what was conceived as a permanent exhibit, El terrorismo de estado en la Argentina (State terrorism in Argentina). Based on a book by Osvaldo Bayer, Atilio A. Boron, Julio C. Gambina, Elvira Barillaro, and Francisca La Greca, the exhibit criticized the idealized rhetoric of nation and the notion that the recent past was a catastrophic exception in Argentine history. Informational panels and images instead focused on the long history and consequences of state violence while tracing perspectives that are generally excluded from Argentine political and historical discourse. As installed in 2012, the exhibit was split into three sections: one focused on state terrorism against indigenous populations, immigrants, and those with “other” (i.e., leftist) political views throughout Argentine history; another focused on the most recent dictatorship; and a third presenting the history of the building and how it was used by the Argentine military both prior to and during the most recent military government. The exhibit on the history of state violence in Argentina largely echoes Sandra Lorenzano’s argument that national “hegemony has been founded on the violent nullification of difference, either by essential revocation of citizenship or outright extermination.”24 In the introductory panel to the exhibit, titled “Resignificación del espacio” (Redefining the space), Atilio Boron critiques the notion that the military dictatorship was “without precedent” in Argentina and that state terrorism was an “exceptional anomaly completely out of line with the normal course of our idyllic ‘national history’ ”25 by highlighting the repeated (and often condoned) use of violence by the state against those perceived as “other” to dominant political projects. The exhibit demonstrates this through the presentation of historical documents and visual displays that trace the history of violent repression by the state, drawing primarily from the coauthored book. The installation particularly focuses on the extermination of indigenous populations and elimination of “subversive” cultural and political elements among immigrants to Argentina, presented as precursors to the large-​scale detention, torture, and murder by the military regime during the most recent military dictatorship. For example, “El genocidio de los pueblos originarios” (The genocide of indigenous people) argues that through the forced removal and murder of indigenous populations by the state during the so-​called Conquest of the Desert (Conquista del desierto), “the indigenous ‘other’ disappeared from the discursive plane as a prelude to the physical practice of their extermination by the State, which remains unpunished:

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the idea was that the land was a desert, its potential for development being stifled by the presence of populations who were denied their human condition and were likened to savage animals.”26 Here, the curators introduce a previously excluded subject of human rights violations, the indigenous populations whose history and culture have been removed from Argentine national identity, and recuperate them as a foundational example of state-​sanctioned violence.27 Like the permanent exhibit at MUME, the installation includes photographs, letters, newspapers and other archival materials in glass displays that evoke traditional museological approaches. However, the narrative of the genocide and forced removal of indigenous populations through most of the 1800s is connected with the systemic incarceration, torture, and murder during the military dictatorship. This connection is augmented through the justification of the Argentine state for its elimination of the indigenous population, exposed by the exhibit as “the construction of the social imaginary that regards the indigenous as an enemy who attacks private property and acts against the nation.”28 The curators link the adherence to capitalism and the rhetoric of national identity and “progress” articulated by the Argentine state during its “war against the indian [Guerra contra el indio]” to the very same notions often invoked during the military dictatorship as justification for the use of state violence. “The so-​called ‘Conquest of the Desert’ was a large-​scale operation of State Terrorism. . . . [I]t was full of all types of atrocities, precursors to those that were methodically carried out under the most recent Military Dictatorship.”29 This part of the exhibit presents other moments of unfettered violence by the state in Argentine history as way to dispute the notion of the military dictatorship as an exceptional golpe. This is most evident in the section “El inmigrante: El nuevo enemigo” (Immigrants: The new enemy), which again provides historical documentation and images placed in glass cases and on large panels related to various moments of state repression of immigrant populations, particularly those involved with labor organizations in anarchist or socialist traditions. The panels highlight specific moments of the violent repression of working class immigrants by the state, such the so-​called Tragic Week (Semana Trágica) of 1919 or Rebellion in Patagonia (Patagonia Rebelde) in 1920–­22, when hundreds of largely immigrant strikers were killed by government forces. The curators again present the xenophobic government justification for the suppression of “seditious acts that so-​called authentic workers claim as a right to strike” by including

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a newspaper editorial that uses the rhetoric of nation and citizenship to defend the use of violence against workers who are “foreign to us, and inclined toward subversion and violence.”30 This again echoes the rhetoric used by the military to justify its use of violence against “subversives” or outside “agitators” during the dictatorship, painting them as non-​Argentines seeking to disrupt the political, social, and economic structures of the nation. In this sense, the IEM exhibit constructs a teleological narrative of state-​sanctioned violence against political dissidents, which served as direct precursors to the use of violence during the dictatorship: “Half a century later: before murdering the victims, they would torture them and steal their belongings.”31 While the exhibit highlights labor union strikes as acts of resistance in the previous section, and indigenous populations are presented as victimized figures of terror, the curators also utilize the hero/victim narrative to recuperate the resistance to the military regime in the 1970s, pointing to “the heroic resistance of mothers and families of the disappeared and of human rights organizations to the dictatorship.”32 Here, IEM highlights the most visible subjects of human rights discourse in postdictatorial Argentina, madres and desaparecidos, and the oft-​idealized figure of “a young generation and other proponents of a struggle for a different society”33 while repeating the exclusion of those marginalized, nonpolitical subjects in whose name this “young generation” was acting. This is visually conveyed through the focus on resistant/victimized figures related to the disappeared and their families, the experiences of prisoners in detention centers such as ESMA, and the visible public protests by groups such as the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo. Photographs of madres show them wearing their iconic white handkerchiefs while walking through public spaces carrying the images of their disappeared children, reiterating their heroic status within human rights discourse. Though not part of the official IEM exhibit installed in 2012, another display focused on the well-​known images of detainees and military personnel taken by Víctor Basterra while he was imprisoned in the ESMA. Basterra’s “fotos sacadas” (with the double meaning of taking a picture and smuggling it out of the complex) were instrumental in the juridical trials for identifying both the detenidos-​ desaparecidos in the ESMA and the military personnel involved in the detention, torture, and murder of these individuals.34 And yet, the exhibit expands the notion of human rights beyond the victims of torture and murder by the state, alluding to economic and social conceptualizations of human rights violations committed by the

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military regime that connect with the underlying rhetoric of progress used to justify state terror throughout Argentine history. “The concept of modernization would be used by the authoritarian regime to justify all of the political, economic, social, and cultural changes that were carried out under their management, fundamentally violating the human rights of a sector of the population.”35 This echoes the critique in Walsh’s letter of the neoliberal economic policies installed by the military regime and the effects they had on poor and working-​class Argentines. This statement moves beyond the hero/victim discourse of nunca más by offering a conceptualization of human rights violations that are not tied to explicit acts of disappearance, torture, and murder by the state. This is also highlighted in the exhibit’s introduction to the goals of the IEM project: “The results of the dictatorships that devastated the region in these years left more than terror and death in their sinister wake; they also left the exclusion of millions of people from access to the most fundamental human rights, such as the right to work, to health, and to education.”36 This is an explicit rearticulation of human rights beyond liberal notions of civil and political rights, highlighting the social and economic issues that were included in the UDHR and were the justification for the political acts of resistance by many of the disappeared but have since been erased from dominant postdictatorial discourse throughout the Southern Cone. While the exhibit’s textual panels trace a critical engagement with the notion of human rights subjects beyond the visible violence of kidnapping, torture, and murder by the state, the majority of images and objects in the “Dictatorship” section of the exhibit are related to the disappeared, victims of detention and torture, resistance to the dictatorship, and the continued call for punishment of military personnel who committed human rights violations. Here the nonsubjects of nunca más are once again made invisible, despite the IEM’s intent to expand the concepts of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. For example, a panel titled “Los rostros del mal” (The faces of evil) contains images of dozens of genocidas that were placed on trial or imprisoned for committing acts of torture and murder during the military dictatorship. The use of the term evil moves the discourse of the exhibit into the ethical realm, transforming the narrative of postdictatorial memory into that of a “sheer ethical conflict between good and evil”37 and thus vacating the political from discursive engagement in these acts. Highlighting the pursuit of justice for the disappeared in the present and naming those who committed human rights violations during the dictatorship are key

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elements of the notions of memory, truth, and justice that guide the work of IEM. However, this also visually shifts the focus back to the dominant discourse of civil and political rights while construing the figure of the “evil genocida” as the cipher for all state violence. This again places the systemic social and economic human rights violations against “millions of people” initiated by the dictatorship (and implicitly supported by vast sectors of Argentine society) under erasure. One piece in the IEM exhibit differed aesthetically from the image and information panels: reproductions of inscriptions found in the Casino de Oficiales building, made by those who were detained and tortured in the space. The inscriptions highlight personal reflections on the experience as prisoners in the ESMA, some noting the lack of legal justification for their detention (“40 dias y civil”), others alluding to religion and faith as a way to cope with the experience (“FE” with a cross), or just names or initials of those who were detained in ESMA (e.g., marta diaz). A particularly powerful drawing appears to show the outline of a baby inside a larger human figure, intimating that the prisoner was pregnant and evoking the hundreds of children born to mothers in captivity and given away by the military regime. Again, my point is not to negate the importance of presenting this material: these are human beings who were kidnapped, tortured, and killed for their political beliefs. However, the fact that these images continue to dominate even exhibits such as the IEM, which attempted to articulate a broader view of human rights subjectivity based upon social and economic issues, reiterates the power that nunca más holds in molding postdictatorial discourse while simultaneously concealing the constitutive exclusion of nonsubjects of memory and human rights that is its foundation. The “Dictatorship” section of the exhibit also included panels related to other sites in Buenos Aires that formed part of the same network of detention, torture, and disappearance as ESMA, such as Automoroes Orletti, El Garaje Olimpo, and the Club Atlético. These panels focus on right-​wing graffiti painted on these sites in 2010 that echoes the justification for the use of violence by the military as “defending the nation” from “subversive terrorists.” The curators introduce these panels by reminding visitors that “these human rights violations were always justified by theories and ideologies in the eyes of the perpetrators” and exhorting them to reject and denounce these justifications “even before they make their appearance on the public stage.”38 The panels present information on each site below images of such graffiti as “Aquí se ajustició a terroristas assesinos [sic]” (Here murderous

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terrorists were brought to justice), written on the site of Automores Orletti and “Aqui [sic] se ajusticio [sic] a terroristas asesinos” written on the former Garaje Olimpo. Another panel presents an image of graffiti written on the Memoria, Justicia, Verdad monument called Plaza 30,000 Compañeros, across from the former site of the clandestine torture center Atlético. The graffiti included the initials “AAA,” referencing the right-​wing paramilitary group Argentine Anticommunist Alliance (Alianza Anticomunista Argentina), which clandestinely killed and tortured suspected “subversives,” and an inflammatory phrase referencing the number of disappeared during the military regime: “30000 . . . y fueron pocos” (30,000 . . . and not enough). The inclusion of recent graffiti on these sites is meant to show the continued need to disseminate the juridical truth of torture and murder committed by military personnel, given the visibility of reactionary rhetoric still describing the disappeared as “terrorists” and “subversives” who deserved their fate for “betraying” the nation. At the same time, I suggest that the inclusion of this right-​wing graffiti inadvertently points toward a need to articulate postdictatorial memory and human rights in ways that move beyond the dominant narrative co-​constituted by the militant Left and the military regime during this period. The graffiti is a counterhegemonic response to the idealized hero/victim discourse in postdictatorship that acritically presents the acts of such armed groups as the Montoneros as part of a united resistance to the military regime, and in doing so, invites this type of rhetoric by ultraconservative factions of society. As Argentine cultural critic (and ex-​montonera) Pilar Calveiro has argued, the dominant cultural politics of memory in Argentina involves repetition of the same “form of politics based upon a binary and exclusionary logic”39 that dominated the 1970s, one that remains trapped in “the game of power and the domineering logic of the state itself, not of the resistances.”40 Calveiro argues that the notions of both innocent victim and heroic militant eliminated a critical engagement with the “political” in postdictatorial memory discourse, and that “the rejection of mythic tales about innocent victims or heroic combatants can facilitate the path to a responsible memory,”41 to critical examination of the past in relation to the present and the future. While I fully agree with Calveiro here, I maintain that the binary logic at work in postdictatorial culture was not solely constituted by the militant Left and the military regime, but rather resulted from a fusion of memory and human rights. Both the development of the hero/victim discourse and the recent critical turn against this idealized figure

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are constructed within the logic of nunca más. This ultimately maintains those who are already visible as political subjects at the center of postdictatorial discourse (the disappeared, human rights organizations, hijxs, madres, guerrillas, etc.) and thus repeats the foundational exclusion of the marginalized, subaltern subjects of economic and social human rights from the very concept of nunca más. In other words, the critique of the graffiti presented by the IEM reproduces the very framework of heroic resistance and innocent victimhood that enables this right-​wing rhetoric to continue in the present. This highlights the need to think beyond of the logic of nation and state terror to trace the nonsubjects of nunca más whose appearance may provide new notions of political subjectivity that disrupt the ground of continued glorification of the military regime and its disastrous political, social, and economic project. This does not obscure madres, hijxs, and the disappeared as subjects of human rights, but rather multiplies who or what counts as the political subjects of rights in ways that can contribute to the IEM’s goal of “achieving a true democracy based upon justice, equality, and dignity for all.”42 As I have argued throughout this book, nonsubjects of human rights and memory can be traced through aesthetic interventions that open up these themes beyond the hero/victim discourse that dominates social science–­inflected exhibits in postdictatorial culture. One such example was presented near the IEM’s permanent exhibit in the Cuatro Columnas building in 2012: Nicolás Arrúe’s audiovisual installation Presencias (Presences). The installation consists of a series of silhouettes intermittently projected onto large white sheets illuminated with soft lights. Among the shadowy images are a pregnant woman cradling her unborn baby in the womb; a child playing on a swing; the figure of a man helping a young child climb stairs (figure 13); and an image of a mother holding her child while looking directly at the spectator. The silhouettes are accompanied by voices of children crying, cooing, and laughing amid the sounds of a park swing and traffic in the city. Above the installation is a sign that reads, “They took them away full of life / and with life we make them present,”43 language that evokes the desaparecidos without explicitly naming them as the subjects of the piece. The images and sounds of the display dialogue with a poetic, handwritten text on a large canvas accompanying the audiovisual installation. The text frames the spectators’ interpretation of the exhibit by evoking a sense of lives that never were, beginning with the line “What could have been, what returns in dreams, from nowhere, from me” and

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Figure 13. Arq. Nicolás Arrúe, Presencias installation at Espacio Memoria, 2012. Image courtesy of Nicolás Arrúe.

closing, “Things that could have been, but only in dreams, from everywhere, from us, as shadows without figures”44 marking the fact that these experiences are impossible—­they did not happen. The combination of the initial singular (“nowhere [ningún lado], from me”) and the plural (“everywhere [todos lados], from us”) multiplies the subjectivities contained in the piece and makes connections between individual and collective experience of loss and “impossible lives” beyond the discourse of heroic/victimized resistance to state terror. The majority of these phrases do not directly refer to the military dictatorship, focusing instead on common, everyday activities with which spectators can directly relate: “A walk to the square / teach your child / go on vacation / laugh at nothing.”45 The only text that refers to censorship and children taken from their detained mothers—­“to write something / and they don’t burn it, / to have a child / and they don’t steal it”46—­subtly serves as a connection to specific experiences of the military dictatorship, as it is included among other activities that “could

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have been.” The poem makes numerous references to life that ended too soon, but does so in a way that allows for differing subjective interpretations of violence and death. For example, “To learn to live, / to have time to die, / to look back, / to celebrate good decisions / to remedy errors”47 could trace the disappeared, but also the lives of young people living in the poorest sections of Buenos Aires today who are killed by continued police violence or who do not have the time to live or die as human beings as they struggle to survive the economic crises that have crippled Argentina. A particularly poignant line, “To make mistakes / again, again, and again,”48 evokes the slim margin of error for poor and immigrant populations, such as those who occupied the Parque Indoamericano in 2010, and how one wrong decision or mistake can result in the loss of a home, a hungry child, or even death in the face of violence committed by both state and nonstate actors. The physical placement of Presencias in the Cuatro Columnas building marks its connection with the human rights violations committed by military personnel, the theft of children born to those in captivity, and the impossible pasts, presents, and futures of the disappeared. Yet the way the exhibit presents these themes is left open—­there is no closure between aesthetics and politics, or memory and human rights, that sutures the meaning of these impossible lives to specific subjectivities. The emotions evoked might be those of the accidental death of a loved one, someone who is unable to have children, the families of those who are killed daily in the poorest areas of Gran Buenos Aires, or those invisible subjects who suffer in the forgotten spaces of any community. The shared experience of raising a child, changing jobs, taking a vacation, or laughing about nothing is used to make connections with spectators, and the impossibility of these experiences for those who were disappeared is shared by those in diverse social contexts in the present. In this sense, Presencias disrupts the dominant politics of cultural memory in postdictatorship by inserting a dissensual cut within idealized notions of militancy and military duty tinged with the logic of war and the rhetoric of nation. It opens up the figure of victim beyond the discourse of state terror and the disappeared, constituting a political gesture in the Rancieran sense. Without being political art, it undoes the distribution of the sensible with regard to dominant notions of memory and human rights, creating the conditions of possibility for nonsubjects of nunca más to become visible as political subjects in postdictatorial culture.

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Temporary Aesthetic Interventions and El Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti The exterior wall of the ESMA complex has long been used as a canvas for aesthetic interventions critiquing repression by the state, such as the well-​known Siluetazo installation of twenty iron silhouettes by various visual artists (including León Ferrari) placed on its gates in 2005 to call for justice for the disappeared.49 More recently, the continued use of so-​called gatillo fácil (trigger-​happy) police violence in postdictatorship, primarily carried out against nonvisible subjects of memory and human rights in the poorest sections of Gran Buenos Aires, has become subject to criticism.50 Recent interventions on the exterior of the site have focused on this issue, such as a 2012 installation of large images of two members of the piquetero movement (Dario Santillán and Maximiliano Kosteki) murdered by police during a protest, and the 2013 installation of a list of names of all the victims of state violence after the end of the dictatorship as part of the National Day of Struggle against Institutional Violence (Día Nacional de Lucha contra la Violencia Institucional, May 8). These installations juxtapose the largely poor and immigrant victims of police violence in postdictatorship with the ethical subjects of past catastrophe (desaparecidos, madres, etc.) and, in so doing, open up the concept of human rights by inserting nonsubjects of nunca más into the most visible space of horror, thus placing “two worlds into one and the same world.”51 These temporary interventions highlight the fact that the end of dictatorship has not ended human rights violations by the state. They suggest that the exclusion and repression of marginalized subjects—­be they indigenous populations, immigrants, the poor, or political activists—­ continues in democracy. As Sandra Lorenzano has argued, “The 30,000 victims of the last military dictatorship are joined today by those killed by the police during the historic days of December 19 and 20, 2001, by those who have fallen victim to the ‘gatillo fácil,’ by the mafias that protect the privileged.”52 The reference to mass protests during the 2001 economic crisis and the continued use of violence against the poorest sectors of society reasserts the need to reconceptualize the notion of human rights beyond nunca más and the dictatorship. As Silvia Tandeciarz suggests, this rearticulation of human rights in Argentina needs to “move beyond the global interests inscribed in its legacy of terror to grasp the languages of the local: the voices of the piqueteros and asambleístas denouncing the effects of global capitalism on their everyday

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lives; the murals and structures erected by human rights groups and neighborhood assemblies recalling human suffering; and the graffiti on city walls calling for justice and change.”53 In this sense, while providing a space for reflection on the effects of the most recent military regime in Argentina, the Espacio Memoria also constitutes a site for critical interrogation of the concepts of democracy, citizenship, and human rights through visual culture. It creates a space for the (de)construction of memory practices between generations through the inherent tension between aesthetics and politics, which can produce diverse moments of political subjectivation that disrupt dominant notions of human rights in postdictatorial society. The most active site for these activities is the Haroldo Conti Cultural Center of Memory (Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti; Conti henceforth), which houses exhibit spaces for temporary artistic installations and a library with an archive of the exhibits previously presented in the building. The Conti also hosts conferences, debates, films, concerts, and other cultural events related to broad interpretations of memory and human rights, and has a strong social media presence that echoes its stated focus on engaging “the generation after the victims and victimizers, those who were implicated in this history, and those who were able to remain indifferent.”54 The cultural center is named after the disappeared writer and activist Haroldo Conti, and the goals of the space are clearly laid out in a mission statement placed at the entrance for all visitors to see: “With the challenge of contributing to redefining this site of horror, a space of creation, reflection, and dissemination of the culture of memory and human rights was created. . . . Transforming this emblematic space of imprisonment, exclusion, and death into a space of life open to the community is the most important commitment and challenge to the construction of memory, truth, and justice.”55 Here we note the intent on moving beyond horror and trauma evoked by the ESMA site to examine how the very notions of memory and human rights are articulated and distributed in postdictatorial culture. While repeating the concept of “memory, truth, and justice” associated with human rights organizations and the rhetoric of nunca más, the diverse temporary aesthetic interventions presented at the Conti since its inauguration in 2008 undo the ethical knot of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. The Conti presents an open interpretation of human rights culture, where previously invisible political subjectivities can appear and reconfigure postdictatorial discourse. In this sense, while not negating the

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political militancy or the suffering of those who were imprisoned, tortured, and killed at ESMA, many temporary exhibits at the Conti offer perspectives on human rights that move beyond the notion of nunca más as the foundation for this discussion. The temporary installations at the Conti take multiple forms (e.g., photography, paintings, mixed-​ media pieces, etc.) and explore diverse themes, including memory, human rights, citizenship, democracy, inequality, and representation in a variety of contexts. As Florencia Battiti maintains, “Those works whose strategies appeal to an active aesthetic experience create a favorable environment for subverting certainty and opening new spaces of reflection.”56 My examination of temporary art installations at the Conti in the remainder of this chapter is not meant to be exhaustive, but rather explores aesthetic interventions that reorient the notions of human rights and memory in a nonethical manner, incorporating the inherent fissures and contradictions in these concepts into the artworks. As Horacio González has argued, “The only thing that permits the continuation of memory is the unreal reality, the perfectly imperfect, and the completed yet unfinished tenor of art.”57 González makes this comment while discussing the foundational paradox of what he calls the “art of nunca más” in terms very similar to the critique of the pedagogical intent of so-​called political or critical art by Rancière and Richard. He suggests that the “art of ‘nunca más’ clashes precisely with the nondirective and nonguidance of art. If it truly wants to be art, it must refrain from training or instructing; but if it eliminates its role as guide, it fails in two ways . . . it fails in its dual nature of aesthetics and politics.”58 Instead, by incorporating the “perfectly imperfect” and “always already unfinished” nature of representation and reception inherent in art itself, aesthetic interventions can explore the borders of what constitutes art and the political in postdictatorship in ways that traditional pedagogy of museological exhibits cannot. Paula Luttringer’s 2012 photography installation El lamento de los muros (The sorrow of the walls) engages with the effects of dictatorship in ways that documentary or social science–­inflected exhibits do not, where, as Natalia Fortuny suggests, “the photos—­complex traces of the real—­also show linguistic traces and, as such, appear both incomplete and brimming over with meaning.”59 The intervention consists of a combination of quotes from women who survived imprisonment and torture at various sites (e.g., Club Atlético, Olimpo, Orletti, Casita de Paracao) coupled with artistic photographs of the physical remains of these sites. The combination of documentary elements (testimonials,

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dates and place of victim’s detention, etc.) and images intensely focused on the shapes, colors, lines, and markings on the physical walls explore the tension between politics and aesthetics. The photographs dialogue with each individual testimony in some way, constituting an aesthetic exploration of the limits of representing trauma through language and opening up multiple interpretations. For example, one tortured woman discusses the ways noises and screams from the past continue to torture her in the present, resurfacing any time she delves into the memory of her experience: “I am paralyzed in this scream, I remain in this time, in this place. . . . [E]ven though life continues and they have freed some of us, one never leaves the ‘pit.’ ”60 The paralyzing effect of her memories on the present and the notion that one’s mind never leaves the cell where the body was once placed are accentuated by the accompanying close-​up of a wall. The black-​and-​white image traces the indistinct characteristics of the cell, intimating an enclosed space of shadows, cracks, and stains from which there is no escape. The interplay between the women’s comments and Luttringer’s images of the physical remains of the spaces where they were detained and tortured is repeated in two testimonies about the continued effects of incarceration and rape in the present. One woman notes how her physical rape by military personnel also constituted a mental violation in that after leaving prison “it was very difficult for me to be caressed again, to feel it as a caress and not as groping.”61 This woman also explores the complex psychological suffering she endured, explaining that while she and most of her fellow inmates were first raped, then tortured in other ways, there was one woman whom the guards never physically tortured in ways other than rape. “With her it was different, she had a spectacular body and the guards would come in and rape her without torturing her. It is a different feeling of rejection and anguish produced within you when they are raping someone next to you than the other type of torture. . . . [T]his situation created a much stronger feeling of rejection and anguish.”62 The contradictory notions of rejection and anguish expressed in these comments explore the psychological effects of rape and torture in ways that are not typically included in the hero/victim discourse of nunca más. Knowing that a fellow prisoner was tortured less than you due to her physical beauty (i.e., the guards chose her over you) while simultaneously recognizing that she is being raped and feeling guilty for having these thoughts of rejection, point toward aspects of rape and torture beyond the visible focus upon victims and victimizers. This is echoed in another testimony about mental aspects

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of rape that continue long after the physical violation of the body, as a woman describes how she still cannot be in enclosed spaces (“I go to the bathroom and I leave the door open”) because of the “feeling of suffocation and rape” that it reproduces.63 The woman then expands upon the unspoken effects of rape: “All rape implies much guilt, as well as shame. . . . [T]here are many things that are left unsaid, that we don’t dare to say, this private world that we hide, that we don’t let out.”64 Both of these testimonies are accompanied by Luttringer’s fuzzy close-​ups of the remains of the clandestine detention centers. Accompanying the first testimony is a blurred image of the exterior of a cell door, suggesting that the viewer is about to enter the physical and mental enclosure described in the women’s testimony. The photograph accompanying the second testimonial is taken from within a cell whose dark, distorted interior reflects the mental anguish that continues for the women who were raped while imprisoned. The viewer’s eyes are drawn to the keyhole looking out into a white, blank space that contrasts with the darkness dominating the rest of the image, intimating a contradictory notion of a future hope of escaping the mental effects of rape and torture but not being able to visualize that future beyond the experience of the cell (figure 14). The aesthetic exploration of testimony presented in these images does not constitute testimonial art in the sense critiqued by Rancière; rather it exceeds both the juridical notion of testimony and the institutionalized regime of art. These images create the conditions for spectators to place the testimony of the women who were detained, raped, and tortured in dialogue with their own personal experiences of physical and psychological abuse, suffering, and pain. The fragmented, distorted aesthetic of the images of the remnants of the sites evokes the fractured memories and scattered effects of this experience for the women in the present, noting the difficulty of speaking to their children about the experience or engaging in physical or emotional intimacy after being repeatedly tortured and raped by military personnel. While the texts offer direct testimonial descriptions of the violence suffered by these women, the images trace the lingering effects of this experience on their bodies, minds, and daily human interaction in the present. In this sense, while maintaining the focus on the visible victims of dictatorship (political prisoners), the aesthetic form of the exhibit opens up the meaning of victimization beyond both militancy and innocence, by exploring what Nelly Richard calls “the limits of turmoil and contention of irreconcilable meaning, knowing that no form calmly coincides with itself.”65

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Figure 14. Paula Luttringer, El lamento de los muros installation at the Conti, 2012. Image courtesy of Paula Luttringer.

The strength of the Conti lies in creating an artistic space that allows for these nonhegemonic interrogations into the meaning of memory and human rights, which explore multiple subjectivities that disrupt normalized interpretation of the relationship between these two categories in postdictatorship. An interesting theme that has appeared in a number of recent artistic works at the Conti is that of using recycled materials to reflect upon the themes of economic and social rights in Buenos Aires (and throughout Argentina), “linking past atrocities with the present, in a country where hundreds exist only because of the modes by which the city produces and disposes of its waste.”66 Here, Vikki Bell refers to the “cartoneros who live in the shanty towns in and

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around Buenos Aires . . . the people who survive . . . at the social and economic margin” but who are “also visible to all . . . not least in the demonstrations of the piqueteros, the groups of urban poor who block routes in the city to demand precisely to be administered biopolitically, for their lives to be the focus of governmentality.”67 The aesthetic use of waste materials has direct connections to the 2001 economic crisis in Argentina, which saw the emergence of piqueteros, cartoneros, and other marginalized groups most affected by the neoliberal economic policies installed by the military regime and accelerated during the administration of Carlos Menem. The use of found objects such as cardboard boxes, bottle tops, books, and newspapers, reinserted into circulation via artistic interventions, marks a connection with the daily lives of those living in the poorest spaces of Gran Buenos Aires and serves as a way to insert nonsubjects of never again into postdictatorial discourse related to human rights. One such example is Enrique Ježik’s 2014 installation Declaración formada por 37 esculturas (Statement formed by 37 sculptures), which consists of thirty-​seven large letters covering the entirety of the floor of the main exhibit space in the Conti to spell out No puedo tragar tanto como quisiera vomitar (I am unable to swallow as much as I would like to vomit).68 This quote is attributed to Jewish artist Max Lieberman commenting on a parade of Nazi supporters after their rise to political power in 1933. In the context of the installation at the Conti, the phrase evokes the visceral desire to vomit when faced with the realities of torture and murder committed by the military at the ESMA, or perhaps a philosophical commentary on the human condition when faced with such atrocities. However, the phrase also makes a contemporary comment on social injustice and systemic violence through the materials used to create the letters: five and a half tons of cardboard collected by the Cooperativa de Cartoneros Madreselva and purchased by the artist for use in the exhibit. This makes an implicit connection between the human suffering under the Nazis, the military dictatorship, and the current economic system in democratic Argentina. The installation thus multiplies the subjects of catastrophe beyond visible victims of ethnic or political genocide to those invisible victims of consensual neoliberal economic policies in postdictatorship. The materiality of the exhibit is especially important, as the cardboard is not only a symbol of the cartoneros but was physically recuperated by them as part of the informal labor market that dominates the marginalized sections of Gran Buenos Aires. Thus, the installation traces a tension

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between aesthetic interventions and the political, pointing toward the nonsubjects of human rights discourse through its installation within the emblematic physical symbol of nunca más.

The Nonsubjects of Nunca Más as the Subjects of Human Rights The tension between politics and aesthetics is clear in the 2011 installation Miradas desde lo oculto (Hidden gazes). The photography exhibit places the camera in the hands of the invisible residents of Villa 15 (commonly known as the Hidden City [Ciudad Oculta]) and allows them to articulate their own perspectives on this marginalized neighborhood in Buenos Aires. The young photographers included in this exhibit all received some training in photography from Fundación ph15, a nonprofit organization seeking to use visual arts “to develop new expressive, communicative, and technical abilities in vulnerable children and youth through workshops and activities geared toward social integration and the socialization of artistic experience.”69 The goal of political activism via artistic production inherent in the ph15 project makes Miradas desde lo oculto an ideal exhibit for examining the tenuous relationship between politics and aesthetics explored in the Conti. While the images trace the material realities of daily life for these adolescents in Villa 15, most of the photographs were developed in black-​and-​white, performatively calling for an aesthetic interpretation that moves beyond pure testimonial documentation. The adolescent photographers present oblique perspectives on both the built environment and the human subjects that reside in Villa 15, who are largely invisible in the normative discourse of violence, poverty, and noncitizenship in the neighborhood portrayed by the media. The installation of the exhibit in the Conti and other art galleries throughout Argentina augments the ambiguity between aesthetics and politics inherent in the images and the dissensual subjects of human rights that appear within this relationship. There are numerous photographs of children playing and interacting with each other and the camera, ranging from portrait shots to street photography depictions of their daily lives. The children are not presented as helpless subjects of abject poverty; through the lens of the adolescent photographers, they are merely portrayed in moments of daily life in Villa 15. The introduction of contradictory meanings of documentary photographs through the seemingly innocent perspective

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of youth is particularly highlighted in a series of three portraits by one eighteen-​year-​old photographer. In the first image, a shirtless child is sitting on the ground in an alley, covering his ears and smirking at the camera. The foreground is shadowed, covering most of the child’s body and torso, but a splash of sunlight highlights the boy’s face and illuminates the alley in the background. A second image shows a child sitting inside a large bucket, playfully covering his or her eyes with head turned toward the camera. The image incorporates a contrast between light and shadows, as the darkened foreground and background are separated by a ray of light highlighting the child at the center of the frame. The third is a portrait of a young girl standing in front of a bicycle, her eyes and forehead blocked by the hand of another child extending from off camera. The children portrayed in these images are playful and happy, contrasting with the material realities of their lives, represented by the alleys, tin shelters, and barbed wire fences in the background. The lens of childhood innocence offered by these adolescent photographers inserts an often-​ignored perspective of life within the “hidden city” of Buenos Aires, beyond notions of violence and poverty, by highlighting the humanity that remains at the center of the neighborhood. The invisible experiences of everyday life in Villa 15 are explored by the adolescent photographers in images that capture the private and public lives of residents. There are scenes inside the home, such as a tight shot of someone peeling potatoes while preparing a meal and a photograph of an altar honoring a deceased family member. Other images portray human interactions in public spaces, such as a shot of a smiling child midflight on a playground swing and a picture of young children interacting on the street in front of a local butcher shop. Two photographs in particular capture the viewer’s attention for the way they frame the interaction between human beings and the built environment of the neighborhood. In one image, a child with a blanket draped over the back turns away from the camera with his or her head against a wall, standing on what appears to be a dirt gutter running along the sidewalk (figure 15). It is difficult for the viewer to ascertain the sex of the child or what is happening in the image, creating a sense of ambiguity. Most of the child’s body is covered by the blanket, with only the right arm and right foot visible, and the face is hidden from the camera as well, buried into his or her hand. The child could be weeping into the wall, urinating into the drainage ditch while shielded by the blanket, or playing a game of hide-​and-​seek. This image offers an ambiguous moment of meaning and understanding for adult

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Figure 15. Belén Maynard, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at the Conti, 2011. Image courtesy of Fundación ph15.

viewers, who could interpret the photograph both as a playful moment of childhood and as highlighting the effects of the poverty and violence experienced by many children in the neighborhood. A second photograph also traces human interaction within the physical spaces of the neighborhood in a way that opens itself to varied interpretations. A young girl wearing a white school uniform is walking down an alley with a small drainage ditch cutting through the middle of the sidewalk. The girl is slightly blurred as she walks toward the camera, and the shot is taken from some distance so as to frame the child between the rows of humble homes on either side of the alley. There are three street dogs, two off to the side and one cutting in front of the child and partially blocking her legs and feet. While the material environment presented in the photograph is a less than ideal living situation, with run-​down, makeshift houses framing her walk through the alley, she appears completely at ease, playfully balancing on the edge of the ditch as she walks either to or from school. Like other images

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in the exhibit, this portrayal of life in Villa 15 does not hide the decaying structures and precarious living conditions of its residents, but it also does not present them as helpless victims needing to be saved. The ambiguity of these images highlights the tension between aesthetics and politics in the exhibit, as “no direct cause-​effect relationship is determinable between the intention realized in an art performance and a capacity for political subjectivation.”70 The play between documentary and aesthetic photography is particularly salient in the numerous images that eschew human subjects to focus on the walls, streets, buildings, and other physical objects in the built environment. There is a photograph of a family of bicycles leaning against the exterior wall of a house—­two large bicycles, a medium-​size bike, and a bicycle for a small child—­all grouped together on the street outside the home. This image, taken by a ten-​year-​old, evokes elements of life in Villa 15 without portraying human subjects, as one can imagine two parents and two children riding their bikes through the neighborhood to work, school, the store, or the park. Another image presents a lone bicycle parked in an alley, framed by the brick and tin infrastructure of the houses on either side (figure 16). The black-​and-​ white photograph resembles nostalgic images of bicycles in rustic alleys that evoke the bohemian lifestyle of Parisian cafe and street culture. Here, however, the performative framing of the bicycle contrasts with the precarious urban environment portrayed in the image, as the trash in the alley and the makeshift houses on either side produce a more ambiguous meaning, somewhere between aesthetic beauty and material realism. The play between art and documentation continues in photographs like one of a lone drooping flower placed in a clear cup in the foreground of a black-​and-​white image with unfinished and vacant buildings in the background (figure 17). The ruins of both past and future development frame the decaying flower clinging to life in the water-​filled cup, evoking both the lack of economic opportunity and civil investment in the neighborhood and the survival of beauty and hope in this urban space. Another photograph depicts a human-​like figure comically made from found objects on the street, with an old bucket for a head, an old plank of wood for the body, paddleboards for arms, and a tattered pair of jeans for legs. The “body” is placed on what appears to be a makeshift bed on a public street, which viewers can interpret as a reference to the homelessness rampant in this and other “hidden” neighborhoods in Buenos Aires. This image again presents the material realities of the

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Figure 16. Mariel Alfonso, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at Conti, 2011. Image courtesy of Fundación ph15.

neighborhood in the playful manner of adolescence, producing a contradictory tension between the political interpretation of poverty and homelessness and the aesthetic manipulation of found objects captured by the camera. The installation of the Miradas desde lo oculto exhibit at the Conti ultimately serves to construct an alternative notion of the political than that typically evoked in other exhibits at the Espacio Memoria. It traces the economic and social subjects of human rights who have been elided by the rhetoric of nunca más in both the past and the present, opening up the field of visibility as to who or what counts as a subject of human rights in postdictatorship. The images taken by adolescent photographers are not merely a testimonial documentation of the realities of daily life in Villa 15; they also explore the tension between aesthetic production and political action through previously invisible subjectivities that disrupt the normalized representation of the neighborhood. The collaborative tension between the political activism of

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Figure 17. Juan Ignacio Sousa, Miradas desde lo oculto installation at Conti, 2011. Image courtesy of Fundación ph15.

Fundación ph15 in improving the precarious lives of the youth in Villa 15 and the aesthetic exploration of these experiences by these same adolescents, coupled with their insertion in the institutionalized art circuit, explore the limits of both aesthetics and politics. In this way, the images “change the frames, speeds and scales according to which we perceive the visible, and combine it with a specific invisible element and a specific meaning.”71 The placement of the exhibit in the former ESMA serves “to question the self-​evidence of the visible; to rupture given relations between things and meanings and, inversely, to invent novel relationships between things and meanings that were previously unrelated”72 in postdictatorial discourse on human rights. This same tension between politics and aesthetics is at play in Sujeto en la frontera (Subject at/Subjected to the limit), an exhibit installed at the Conti in 2012. The installation includes images from multiple series by Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos], a photography collective73 based in Buenos Aires whose work largely focuses on precarious lives

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throughout Latin America. While at first glance their images appear to adhere primarily to documentary realism rather than making an aesthetic intervention, a close examination of their work reveals how Sub explores the tensions between politics and aesthetics that I have developed throughout this book. The presentation of Sujeto en la frontera in the former ESMA creates a space for the elided subjects of economic and social human rights to appear as political interventions in postdictatorial culture. The exhibit explores the double notion of subjects at the limit and being subjected to the limit, tracing the boundaries of both politics and art through the visual exploration of marginalized communities in postdictatorship. In this way, Sub’s photography critically intervenes into who or what counts as subjects of human rights and memory, tracing subjectivities that form the constitutive outside of nunca más in both the past and the present. The installation at the Conti included selections from four larger photography projects from the Sub collective: Oxígeno cero (Zero oxygen), Villa 21–­24, Hospital Borda/Los malditos (The damned),74 and La conquista del Indoamericano (The conquest of the Indoamericano).75 Oxígeno cero visually explores the iconic Riachuelo river that flows through Buenos Aires, which has traditionally served as a nostalgic symbol of the city’s history and growth. Most of the Riachuelo contains no oxygen and is highly contaminated, the result of industrial waste dumped by the largely unregulated factories on its banks. The photography series focuses both on the environmental destruction caused by this pollution and the daily lives of the poor and working-​class residents who inhabit neighborhoods close to the river. Several images portray visible garbage in the water, while one image taken from the surface of the river looks up at a mountain of garbage that includes several rusted automobiles. This photo highlights the material and symbolic rubble of neoliberal capitalism described by Gastón Gordillo: “The ruination that makes millions of people live in derelict, polluted, debilitated places.”76 At the top of the trash hill stands a little girl, a puppy, and a younger child partially hidden behind the girl—­who is about to add more trash to the improvised dump on the banks of the river. The power of this shot lies not only in the immense waste visible on the banks of the river, but also in its suggestion of the invisibility of this community and the lack of such municipal services as trash collection. This, in fact, is the primary focus of the series: the human subjects living in proximity to the river. Some images are accompanied by testimonials about the effects of the large amounts of lead in the drinking

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water and the pollution released into the air by factories near these neighborhoods. One image shows the bare upper chest and shoulders of a woman, Marta, highlighting darkened veins from lead in her blood that damages her nervous system. Another photograph focuses on Luz, an eleven-​year-​old who has rashes on her arms and legs from the air pollution in her neighborhood. The image plays with shadows and light so that the marks and scars on the child’s arms and legs are hidden while her face is illuminated, as she stares directly into the camera in a way that demands an emotional connection from the viewer. A close-​ up of a pregnant woman looking off camera while cradling her unborn child is accompanied by a text informing spectators of the numerous miscarriages suffered by residents of these neighborhoods due to contaminated water and air. These images seem to follow the denunciatory gestures of portraying poverty and suffering of women and children in ways that provoke viewers to ethically bear witness to the powerless victims. Yet, while these images are meant to trace the dire situation for the residents of the villas miseria that border the Riachuelo, Sub does not present them as helpless victims of catastrophe. Numerous images depict positive aspects of daily life in the Isla Maciel neighborhood and highlight the beautiful humanity of their residents. One photograph offers a particularly provocative contrast between the material living conditions and the perspective of children growing up in Isla Maciel. The image focuses on a young boy hiding behind a cart and covering his eyes with his hands while sitting among rubbish on the ground, including a piece of cardboard that evokes the cartoneros that have become the symbol of the recent economic crises in Argentina (figure 18). The boy is shoeless and dirty, but the photograph does not depict the abject poverty generally associated with photojournalist images in marginalized communities. Instead, the image has a playful tone, as if the boy were playing peek-​a-​boo with the camera, his dirty feet and legs mirroring those of any child playing outdoors. The series also includes a striking portrait of a mother and her children sitting on a bed inside their home, smiling directly at the camera in a beautiful portrait of a happy family. This contrasts with the material realities facing the mother and her children, thus breaking with the normalized depiction of suffering while alluding to the precarious living conditions of the family.77 These two images highlight humanity’s power to face difficult living conditions without idealizing the realities of those living in such communities as Isla Maciel or negating the effects of the larger social and economic consensus of neoliberal capitalism that produces

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Figure 18. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the Oxígeno cero series, 2010. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

and maintains these impoverished spaces in global megacities such as Buenos Aires. Sub presents the residents of these neighborhoods as cognizant of the larger political and economic implications of the state of their neighborhoods, and as active subjects asserting a claim for social and economic human rights. One image depicts a shirtless man sitting on the banks of the Riachuelo with his back turned to the camera, looking out over a partially dried-​up section of the river while drinking mate. The man contemplates the scene before him as the viewer looks over his shoulder at small pieces of trash washed up on the nearby riverbank, a dock and warehouse on the other riverbank, and the reflection of high-​rise apartment complexes in the water below. In the accompanying text, the viewer learns that Fausto has worked on ships on the river for a long time, and he comments on the continued dumping of industrial waste into the river and complains that nothing changes due to the economic and political interests associated with the factories. This combination of text and image traces the double-​bind of subjectivity and subjection for those who live and work near the Riachuelo. They recognize the dangers to their health from the constant exposure

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to air and water contamination from the factories, but the factories and the related shipping industries provide a livelihood for those in these marginalized communities. The residents are not unaware of this situation—they are not helpless victims—they are cognizant of the sociopolitical consensus that creates these conditions and are searching for a solution. While Fausto’s image and related commentary are critical of the political and economic factors that shape the social realities near the Riachuelo, other images of unnamed residents of Isla Maciel visually suggest the resistance and strength of those living in these communities without any textual explanation. In one close-​up, a man looks above the camera while exhaling cigarette smoke, the words Isla Maciel written in marker on the wall over his head. The look on the man’s face suggests defiance, not despair, presenting him not as a victimized subject but as an active resistant figure. Another image focuses on a woman standing in the middle of defunct railway tracks on a muddy street running through the neighborhood, with makeshift houses, a cartonero cart, and trash framing the scene around her and her pet parakeet. The woman stares directly at the camera, challenging spectators with an accusatory gaze that implicates us in the production of the social and economic conditions endured by those living in precarious communities, while also consuming the visual rhetoric of ethical humanitarianism that denounces these very conditions. These unnamed figures—­“the part of those that have no part—­not the wretched, but the anonymous”78—­disrupt the recent ethical erasure of politics and aesthetics in postdictatorial culture. Their anonymous appearance in the former ESMA undoes accepted notions of visible and sayable human rights discourse, as their subversive gazes beyond the camera open up alternative notions of resistant political subjectivation beyond the rhetoric of nunca más. Sub’s visual exploration of impoverished communities in Buenos Aires continues in Villa 21-​24, a series focused on another neighborhood (Barracas) that is largely located on the banks of the remnants of the Riachuelo on the poor south side of Buenos Aires. The images do not reproduce the spectacle of violence and drug trafficking normally associated with Villa 21-​24, but instead highlight the human elements of daily life and community organizations through close-​ups of its residents and artistic images of the physical spaces of the neighborhood. Some images portray the addiction to paco79 prevalent in the community, such as a photograph focused on a makeshift pipe used to smoke

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the leftover resin of cocaine, with only the hand of the subject who is inhaling the drug visible in the picture. As Fernando J. Rosenberg has noted, the turn to such drugs as paco by impoverished youth reflects a situation where “children, living on the streets and resorting to profoundly destructive and accessible drugs . . . as the only consumption available in extreme destitution, are pushed into a situation of humiliating ecstasy of compulsive consumption, as the market interpellates the individual as consumer while refusing them as waste.”80 The tenuous effects of drug addiction on those who live in the neighborhood are highlighted in two contradictory images. One photograph shows a young woman smiling and covering her eyes in a playful fashion while being hugged by a friend in front of a colorful painted wall in the community. An accompanying text informs viewers that Miriam is addicted to paco and is homeless, stark realities of the absence of the state in neoliberal democracy that contradict the cheery aesthetics of the happy moment captured in the picture. Another image portrays a young man lying on torn sofa cushions placed on the floor next to a lighter and cigarette butts. The subject’s body is relaxed with head tilted back, his half-​opened eyes glazed over, intimating that he is using paco as a means to deal with the reality of his living conditions. Like the photo of Miriam, the image is aesthetically pleasing, contrasting the darkness of the room with a beam of light that illuminates his face and the tattered clothing he is wearing. The beautiful visual presentation both contradicts and accentuates the material realities intimated in the image of a young man who is suffering, impoverished, and addicted to drugs. The ambiguity of visually pleasing images of subjects from marginalized communities is a common trait in Sub photography that highlights the tension between aesthetics and politics in ways that move beyond the typical documentary or photojournalistic image. Their techniques are reminiscent of Brazilian photographer Sebastião Salgado’s aesthetically beautiful portrayals of human subjects in the face of catastrophe, while lacking his signature use of black-​and-​white to connote the documentary photograph as “art.” Two particularly striking images in the Villa 21-​24 series explore contradictions between aesthetic presentation and material reality. One is a portrait of a mother hugging her preadolescent son on the street in front of a colorfully painted wall covered with remnants of graffiti (figure 19). The mother looks slightly off camera, and her disheveled appearance accentuates the exhaustion and despair that appear on her face. In contrast, her son stares directly at

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Figure 19. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the Villa 21-​24 series, 2009. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

the viewer, eyes peering from the shadows created by his black hooded sweatshirt, which stands out against the colorful background. While the mother appears to be hugging her son, the viewer perceives that he is holding her up, bearing the weight of her exhaustion with a youthful strength reiterated by his defiant gaze. This image captures numerous tensions present in the neighborhood: material poverty confronted by familial love and solidarity, the fatigue and resignation of adults from years of struggling to survive, and the renewed resistance of a younger generation hoping for a better future. These contradictions are echoed aesthetically through the contrasting colors, sharp lines, and beautiful presentation of an image that refuses to present the mother and son as abject victims of catastrophe. Another photograph offering a similar intersection between aesthetic beauty and the portrayal of material realities is that of a priest hugging an elderly woman while surrounded by other residents of the neighborhood. The image was taken at dusk, and the photographer plays with light and shadows to focus on the subjects embracing in the center of the scene while tracing the other residents, whose faces are partially exposed on the edges of the image. The interaction between the priest

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and the woman expresses caring and happiness, not consolation and sadness, as both figures smile quietly as she falls against the priest’s larger body for the embrace. While the priest is seen in profile and appears to be saying something to the woman, she looks directly at the camera, offering a sense of serenity and comfort to the viewer. Five other residents surround the embrace at the center of the scene, each partially obscured by the shadows but included in the tender moment between the priest and the elderly woman. This photograph presents a scene of solidarity and community in a marginalized neighborhood that is typically associated with poverty, violence, and drug trafficking in the Argentine cultural imaginary. Sub reveals the nonvisible parts of life in these neighborhoods in a way that disrupts the normalized distribution of the sensible, forging a connection with spectators by presenting the kind of tender moment that can happen in any community, and thus problematizing the “otherness” often attributed to places such as Villa 21-​24. While the focus on human subjects is no doubt the most powerful part of this series, the visual presentation of the physical spaces, buildings, and streets in the photos also offers a unique intervention into dominant perceptions of poor neighborhoods on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. Sub presents the built environment in Villa 21-​24 through beautifully framed images, but in a way that traces the material realities of poverty and absent infrastructure. There are numerous images of the tin roofs that cover the makeshift homes in the neighborhood, many with old tires, clothes, and other pieces of trash strewn on top. While these images seem to conform to the spectacle of poverty often associated with photojournalism, other images in the series explore the tension between aesthetics and the political in the portrayal of the built environment in Villa 21-​24. A striking portrait of urban space echoes the aesthetics of the close-​ups of human beings but focuses solely on an empty street and a broken cart (figure 20). The background of the image consists of a white wall on which hangs a sign with the legible phrase “Aqui [sic] se construirá la plaza [The plaza will be built here]” and other illegible words and numbers erased by weather and time. To the left of the sign the remains of the cart are turned upside down, falling apart, and missing a wheel—­pieces of which lie among other debris to the right under the sign. This portrait of urban space evokes both the promise of the future (“The plaza will be built here”) and the ruins of that future captured in the remnants of the cart, which reflects the recent economic crisis in Argentina and the figure of the cartoneros.

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Figure 20. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the Villa 21-​24 series, 2009. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

A second image portrays both the built environment and human interaction in this space through a wide-​angle shot of the street scene. The photograph offers viewers a complete perspective of the colorful wall that appears as the backdrop in many images, as well as the dirt streets that traverse the neighborhood. At the center of the photograph is Miriam, the homeless, drug-​addicted woman. Here she sits on a stack of old, muddy mattresses observing the street scene as a blurred young man walks by to the left and a blurred street dog moves toward the right. The scene contains handwritten signs for remis leaning against the colored wall, which, like the cartoneros, reflect informal tactics to which residents of these neighborhoods turned amid the economic crisis. The image is aesthetically pleasing, playing with light, shadows, sharp lines, and the blurring effect that evokes movement and highlights Miriam at the center of the frame. At the same time, it portrays the harsh realities for those who live on the street and the material conditions and lack of infrastructure in Villa 21-​24. Yet, like other Sub images, the human figures are not presented as abject subjects, as Miriam appears at ease with her environment. In this sense, Sub visually creates the conditions for the appearance of the nonsubjects of rights

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in the invisible spaces of the city, portraying them as active figures in their daily interactions with urban space. Images from a third Sub series included in the 2012 installation at the Conti, Hospital Borda, visually examine the spaces and individuals interned in the largest mental hospital in Buenos Aires. The series includes a number of portraits of the patients at the hospital, the composition recalling the collaborative work of Chilean photographer Paz Errázuriz and author Diamela Eltit in their visual and textual engagement with the patients at the Putaendo mental institution in El infarto del alma.81 The images of Hospital Borda examine daily life in the institution through oblique shots of empty spaces, graffiti written on the walls, and fragmented images of patients forced to live in the facility. Some images portray the dark, dirty conditions in the hospital, its sparse, decrepit furnishings and bars over the windows evoking both abandonment and imprisonment. One photograph captures a barely visible solitary figure sitting against the wall at the back of the image and blending into the dark, depressed landscape evoked by the material conditions of the hospital interior. Another distorted shot captures a slightly ajar door that allows light to creep into a darkened room, tracing the outline of a nearly indiscernible human figure either exiting or entering the hospital. This play with light, shadows, and out-​of-​focus elements functions as a visual exploration of the limits of sanity and the viewer’s role in the material and symbolic functioning of El Borda: “Between insanity and sanity, there exists a thin border that interrogates and goes through us all.”82 Sub continues to focus on marginalized human subjects in relation to their physical environment in Hospital Borda. A particularly intense shot consists of a patient looking up toward the camera with his eyes closed, seemingly imploring for the pain to end. The photograph was taken from above looking down on the patient who is the focus of the shot, while the checkered floor below and the legs of two individuals standing next to him are blurred to further draw the spectator’s attention to the patient’s expression while evoking the mental state of the subject. Other photos in the series trace the suffering of patients using this blurred image technique, such as another overhead shot taken of a patient lying on a purple mattress, shirt pulled up to reveal most of his chest and lower torso, and an ambiguous expression of agony and pain on his face. This slightly erotic image becomes blurred as our gaze moves down the patient’s body to take in his hands grasping toward the pelvic area covered by his jeans, which becomes more distorted in

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the bottom portion of the image. The accompanying text presents the patient’s testimony that he arrived at the hospital after finding his wife in bed with another man, and the image subtly echoes this connection between sexuality and insanity. Yet the images of patients in Hospital Borda do not solely portray despair, exclusion, and insanity—­ they also constitute an aesthetic exploration of a “negative community”83 of political subjectivation beyond ethical humanitarianism. Through striking portraits of patients staring directly at the camera, Sub defies the common visual rhetoric of human rights subjects as rightless victims to which spectators bear witness within the “logic of a global morality market.”84 In one extreme close-​ up, a patient glares intensely at the viewer, only his eyes in focus. As one looks away from the eyes, the image becomes increasingly blurry, passing over the rest of his facial features and then ultimately becoming lost in the fuzzy indistinction between his white shirt and the out-​of-​focus white background that frames the portrait. This returns our attention to the patient’s eyes, which display an accusatory and defiant gaze that hints at our complicity in contributing to the material and mental state of the subject. In another image, viewers encounter a young patient’s eye peering through a shattered window directly at the camera (figure 21). The image evokes the fractured lives of those interned at the hospital, both in relation to their mental health and their role in Argentine society, inclusively excluded as citizens and political subjects in democracy. At the same time, the intense gaze of the patient issues a challenge to both the photographer, mirrored in the eye of patient, and the viewer, who is symbolically reflected in the same subjective position. The gaze intimates the patient’s recognition of his physical and symbolic exclusion from society, while breaking with the notion that the mental institution is part of another world. Instead, it is intensely connected to, and produced by, the consensus of spectatorial consumption within the rhetoric of ethical humanitarianism outside of El Borda. Another section of the Sujeto en la frontera photography exhibit installed at the Conti presents images documenting the occupation of the Parque Indoamericano by poor and largely immigrant populations. The photographs in the La conquista del Indoamericano series range from photojournalistic shots of the appropriation of the public space and the bloody aftermath of violent encounters between the occupiers and both state and nonstate actors to artistic images of the makeshift housing and close-​ups of the families. Various wide-​angle shots show

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Figure 21. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the Hospital Borda (Los malditos) series, 2011. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

the scale of the largely abandoned park as the occupiers begin to divide up lots and build makeshift dwellings, highlighting the large swath of unused public land and the claims for housing and public services made by the occupiers. La conquista del Indoamericano portrays the dissensual political acts of “the part of those with no part” in asserting their social and economic rights and the violent response by the state against these nonsubjects of the political. The series offers oblique depictions of police and military personnel, presenting them as faceless agents of power that regulate human interaction with space, their faces turned away from the camera or concealed by shadows or body parts. The military personnel thus are not identified as evil subjects or genocidas as in the IEM exhibit, but rather reflect the nonvisible partnership between the state and neoliberal capitalism and the continued violation of economic and social human rights that is occluded through the postdictatorial rhetoric of nunca más. Sub’s focus on human subjects appears through fragmented images of bloodied bodies after the violent encounter with vigilante groups egged on by the anti-​immigrant rhetoric of right-​wing political leaders in Buenos Aires. Yet there are also numerous portraits of the families

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occupying the land as they construct makeshift housing out of whatever materials they can find. Some of these images focus on the process of building shelters out of tarps, boards, and old cloth banners, contrasting these small dwellings with the wide-​open spaces of the park. Other photographs document the families who made up the vast majority of occupiers, highlighting in particular the hundreds of children who would later be caught up in their violent removal. In one image, the camera focuses on a man carrying a child wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by other adults and children who are progressively out of focus as the viewer’s gaze moves to the edges of the photograph. The man stares blankly just past the camera, suggesting that he is deep in thought as he attempts to come to grips with the situation and contemplate the next move for his family. The man’s gaze contrasts with a slightly out-​of-​focus woman on the right side of the image, who stares directly at the camera as she stands with a young toddler, echoing the defiant look depicted in other images by Sub. In another photograph, a mother crouches behind her young child sitting on the grass, a look of concern and exhaustion expressed by her closed eyes and head bowed toward her daughter, whose ambiguous facial expression is accentuated by strands of hair that cover her eyes. Behind the pair we see materials for making a shelter in the wide-​open spaces of the park that blur into the background, again alluding to the contrast between human need and the unused public land that is being occupied. These images reveal the humanity of these poor, largely immigrant families, depicted as nonsubjects of citizenship and rights by the xenophobic rhetoric that led to violent attacks on the occupiers. The occupiers appear cognizant of the discourse of citizenship that would ultimately influence their physical treatment by state and nonstate forces, evident in an image depicting a woman sitting in front of a makeshift shelter flying a large Argentine flag (figure 22). Through the beautifully framed image, taken from ground level looking up through the uncut grass toward the woman and the flag contrasted against the blue sky, Sub interrogates the rhetoric of citizenship and immigration in relation to the many residents of Buenos Aires who lack adequate housing or city services. It places the focus on economic and social human rights for these nonsubjects of Argentine citizenship by presenting them not as helpless victims without rights, but as a group asserting a claim for “the rights that they have and the rights that they have not.”85 The occupiers of the Parque Indoamericano inserted themselves as political subjects within a discourse of citizenship and rights that

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Figure 22. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the La conquista del Indoamericano series, 2010. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

previously maintained their invisibility as immigrant noncitizens. Sub captures this aesthetically through these photographs depicting collective action and resistance—­not an abject suffering of catastrophe by those who await rescue by those with rights, but rather a “radical displacement of liberal categories . . . the possibility of a raw, emancipating human rights impetus . . . a desire of justice that is not exhausted in purely defensive human rights rhetoric.”86 The direct gaze of the subjects is key, reflected in the image of the woman with the flag, as she turns toward the camera in recognition of its (and our) intruding perspective. This notion of active resistance is most powerfully depicted in a close-​up of a young boy in front of his family’s makeshift shelter in the park. The focus on children here and in the other temporary installations initially seems to echo the notion of children as a helpless subject of rights that must be protected, “a symbol of the universal human in a state of vulnerability, universally available as privileged subject of both state interpellation and human rights’ protection, while also iconic for the market as the site of naturalized consumption as necessity and without responsibility.”87 In this sense, children are the most visible rightless victim in

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Figure 23. Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]. From the La conquista del Indoamericano series, 2010. Image courtesy of Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos].

ethical humanitarian discourse, or, as Rosenberg suggests (following Judith Butler), “Children are the prime homo sacer, as their fundamental dependence (which is ours) makes them subject to passionate attachment and renders them vulnerable to exploitation.”88 This echoes Wendy Hesford’s arguments that in humanitarian discourse, “the spectacle of children suffering relies on certain international and national scripts—­ such as the rescue narrative and deterministic models of child development—­that displace children’s negotiations of enveloping discourses and material circumstances and thereby reinforce their disenfranchisement as moral agents and historical actors in the public sphere.”89 However, the boy in the image is not presented as a helpless, victimized subject within the discourse of ethical humanitarianism and the spectacle of children suffering (figure 23). He is wrapped in a blanket that covers the lower portion of his face, leaving only his eyes visible as they directly return the voyeuristic gaze of the viewer. The blurred actions of his family and the distorted depiction of the temporary shelter they have built fade into the background as the camera trains upon the look returned by a nonsubject of rights. His body hidden by the

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blanket that protects him from the cold and the intrusion of the camera, the boy both resists a victimized representation and suggests the complicity of the spectator in producing and maintaining the material and discursive notions of rights portrayed in the image. This boy embodies the double meaning of being a subject at and subjected to the limit alluded to in the title of the Sub exhibit at the Conti. He appears as a noncitizen and nonsubject of nunca más in postdictatorship, but he inserts a dissensual subjectivity into the visible frame of the discourse of human rights. He does so through the political act of occupying public space in the name of economic and social human rights, and by returning a nonvictimized gaze toward the camera and the viewer. Thus Sub presents this boy and other children in these series not as a depoliticized victims, but rather as “complex moral and political subjects who must negotiate the economic and social inequities of globalization at the local level.”90 The image is not presented for the consumption of the “spectacle of childhood innocence” within ethical humanitarianism, but rather upends the focus on the universal rights of a child while highlighting “the social and economic conditions that shape children’s lives.”91 Photography exhibits such as Miradas desde lo oculto and Sujeto en la frontera reorient the viewer’s focus onto the nonsubjects of human rights that were made invisible through the foundational exclusion produced by the notion of nunca más. The images depict the daily lives of residents in marginalized communities, breaking with the common trope of depicting violence and abject poverty in ways that reproduce the spectacle of precariousness associated with these neighborhoods in the Argentine cultural imaginary. The aesthetic exploration of the active resilience, playfulness, and humanity of the most vulnerable parts of the population, beyond the obvious intent to promote political action to deal with these problems, opens up a new visibility for what constitutes a political subject in postdictatorship. While this runs the risk of fusing the notions of politics and aesthetics in a way critiqued by Rancière, the insertion of these nonsubjects of nunca más through art installations in the former ESMA, the most visible space associated with human rights discourse, functions as a nonethical intervention that undoes the fusion of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. It traces not only the experiences of marginalized populations that are inclusively excluded as citizens in the democratic present, but also points toward experiences in the past that have been placed under erasure by the victim/hero discourse of nunca más. These installations

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thus augment the meaning of the Espacio Memoria toward the invisible subjects of economic and social rights in both the past and the present, putting “two worlds into one and the same world” and inserting a dissensual notion of the political within human rights discourse in postdictatorship.

Conclusion

Beyond the Ethical Fusion of Memory and Human Rights in Postdictatorship

One of the images included in Sub’s La conquista del Indoamericano series is a wide-​angle shot of the remnants of the occupation of the immense park on the south side of Buenos Aires. A lone transport belonging to the national guard sits in the center of the image, while a group of military personnel surveys the remains of makeshift dwellings and portable bathrooms installed by the occupiers. The image reiterates the vastness of the large unused public space and marks the political action of hundreds of families who invaded the park to assert a claim for economic and social rights. This photograph echoes the material and discursive ruins of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos in the Parque Indoamericano, an empty symbol of the rhetoric of nunca más and the ethical fusion of memory and human rights discourse in postdictatorship. While noted on the informational sign at the entrance to the Indoamericano, the Paseo itself has long been closed to the public and is in complete disrepair.1 Most of the plaques, sculptures, and lighting fixtures have been destroyed or stolen, hundreds of trees planted in the name of the disappeared have died, and the space is both physically and discursively closed to the public through the city’s recent “green” marketing campaign for the Parque Indoamericano.2 The invisibility of the Paseo is augmented by its placement next to the Paseo de las Malvinas, a space dedicated to soldiers who died in the dictatorship’s final attempt to hold power by invading the Malvinas/Falkland Islands, which was under British control in 1982. There a well-​kept walking path highlights information on the invasion and an eternal flame burns in homage to the soldiers who died, bathed in 187

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the rhetoric of nationalism under the shadow of an immense Argentine flag flying over the grounds. The ruins of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos are visible behind a fence separating the two spaces, but there is no access point for visitors nor are there signs indicating what lies beyond the fence. In examining the remains inside the fence, one finds a graffiti-​ridden plaque labeled “Paseo de los Derechos Humanos” that dedicates the space to the memory of “the political, worker, student, and social ‘disappeared’ . . . victims of state terrorism in the decade of the seventies.”3 This is echoed by other plaques that name specific victims disappeared during the dictatorship, such as the Detained and Disappeared Comarades at Mercedes Benz (Compañeros Detenidos y Desaparecidos de Mercedez Benz) and students from the National High School of Buenos Aires (Colegio Nacional de Buenos Aires), many of whom were classmates of Marcelo Brodsky and are the subject of his 1996 photo essay Buena Memoria. Another installation that remains is La hoja, a metal sculpture of a sheet of paper listing the names of writers and journalists killed by the military regime, including Rodolfo Walsh and his daughter, María Victoria Walsh (figure 24). The sculpture is inscribed, “To the comarades who fell, were murdered, and/or were victims of state terrorism from 1974 to 1983,”4 employing both the discourse of militant resistance and that of innocent victimhood for the subjects listed on the piece. The sculpture has an irregular tear in the middle, which at first glance appears to result from an attempt to destroy the installation. Upon closer examination, however, one realizes that the gash is part of the sculpture, as the names of those killed by the military regime are engraved around the tear. This evokes both the censorship of writers during the dictatorship and the courage of journalists such as Walsh who continued to speak out against the visible and systemic violence perpetrated by the military regime, often paying the ultimate price for their words. There is an interesting paradox in the ruins of the Paseo, as La hoja is one of the few installations still intact yet it remains invisible due to the lack of political and economic support for the Paseo—­a continued censorship in postdictatorship. Another plaque that remains undamaged is dedicated to the more than forty Bolivian citizens disappeared by the military dictatorship in Argentina in 1976. Installed in 2006, the plaque states, “ni olvido ni perdon / la colectividad boliviana” (neither forgetting nor forgiveness / the bolivian community), highlighting the participation of noncitizen victims of state violence in the political activism

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Figure 24. La hoja installation in the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos, 2012. Author photo.

for “memory, truth, and justice” generally associated with more visible human rights organizations such as the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo or H.I.J.O.S. The continued presence of the Bolivian plaque in the Paseo recuperates a memory of the dictatorial past that is generally excluded from the rhetoric of nation, while pointing toward the continued invisibility of nonsubjects of nunca más in postdictatorship. The murder of Bolivian immigrants during the violent removal of occupiers from the public space where the Paseo is located, coupled with the discovery of a sweatshop of Bolivian immigrants working in slave-​like conditions in the former clandestine torture center Automotores Orletti in 2002, traces the constitutive outside of the subjects of human rights evoked through the rhetoric of nation and citizenship in sites of memory throughout the Southern Cone. The fact that the plaque dedicated to the Bolivian citizens killed by the dictatorship in Argentina remains in near-​perfect condition also evokes questions related to the destruction of the rest of the installations of the Paseo. Could the installations

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made with metals of material value have been dismantled, scrapped, and sold by the largely poor and immigrant populations living near the Parque Indoamericano? If so, how can we examine this as a critique of monuments and memorials dedicated to heroes and victims of dictatorship while the nonsubjects of never again continue to live in dire economic conditions? In what ways can we view the destruction of the Paseo as a political act—­not as vandals desecrating a sacred monument to the disappeared, but as a dissensual intervention questioning who or what counts as a subject of human rights? Despite the inclusion of the plaque dedicated to Bolivian citizens disappeared by the Argentine dictatorship in the Paseo, the discursive frame offered by the other installations makes clear that those who count as the subjects of human rights are the political victims of state terror. The Paseo was constructed as a site for the perpetual mourning of past catastrophe, a monument to the ethical fusion of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. While the decision to place the Paseo in the poorest section of Buenos Aires was laudable, the installation itself performs the constitutive exclusion of those nonsubjects of never again that are elided in normalized rhetoric in postdictatorial culture. There is no aesthetic attempt to connect the experiences of political activists who were tortured and disappeared during dictatorship to the lives of nonheroes and nonvictims living in the nearby Villa 21-​24 and other marginalized neighborhoods on the southern border of Buenos Aires. The collection of plaques and monuments to victims of state terror whose political and civil rights were violated ultimately reifies them as the visible subjects of human rights in both past and present. The continued exclusion of the very subjects of economic and social rights in whose name the students, political activists, union leaders, writers, and others acted in the past—­and the violent repression of these same subjects for demanding these rights in a space that includes the Paseo—­highlight the need to decouple notions of memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture. What better tribute to the disappeared than to open up the public space to housing for the subjects of economic and social human rights in whose name they acted? The failure of both Cristina Fernández de Kirchner’s federal government and Mauricio Macri’s municipal government to respond to the demands of the families occupying the Parque Indoamericano—­as well as the lack of popular support to do so—­points toward their status as nonsubjects of rights who do not count in postdictatorial culture.

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The invisible ruins of the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos have transformed it into what we can call a nonplace of cultural memory in postdictatorship, lacking the political and financial support of sites such as the Memorial da Resistência, the Museo de la Memoria, and the Espacio para la Memoria y la Promoción y Defensa de los Derechos Humanos. Here I adapt and expand the term nonplace in the sense developed by Luis Martín-​Cabrera: “The non-​place refers both to the heterogeneous and incommensurable temporalities of the dictatorial past—­noisy silences, holes of memory, spectral traces, and other non-​ ontological markers—­ and to the (im)possibility of connecting these excluded temporalities to the achievement of justice.”5 Martín-​ Cabrera develops this notion specifically in relation to sites that mark “the radical dislocation and lack of place of . . . spectral memories” of the “desaparecidos and of other victims of state terror,” arguing for a theoretical framework “that transcends the unquestioned subordination of justice to laws and calculable retributions, and, at the same time, one that resists the increasing commodification of memory and culture.”6 I would like to extend this notion of nonplace as the name for sites that trace the political subjectivation of nonheroes and nonvictims of the discourse of never again in postdictatorship, beyond the disappeared and other highly visible victimized/heroic figures of the dictatorial past. A closer examination of nonplaces of memory such as the Paseo/ Parque Indoamericano allows us to trace subjects of human rights who have been constitutively excluded from sites of memory predicated upon the notion of nunca más. We can observe this in other nonplaces throughout the Southern Cone, such as the Parque da Juventude (Youth Park) in São Paulo and the Espacio para Arte Contemporáneo (Space for Contemporary Art) in Montevideo. Both cultural spaces occupy the sites of former detention centers, the infamous Carandiru prison in São Paulo and the Miguelete city jail in Montevideo. The physical ruins of Carandiru remain at the site of the Parque da Juventude, a large public space used for recreation, picnics, festivals, and concerts. A small plaque stands near the remains of the walls of the prison, and visitors can walk among the remnants of concrete slabs from the interior of the razed building. While Carandiru temporarily housed political prisoners during the dictatorship in Brazil, the site is most closely associated with the massacre of at least 111 “common” prisoners by police forces in 1992. However, this violation of human rights by the state has been scrubbed from public view at the site, elided by São Paulo’s “green”

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marketing campaign for the Parque da Juventude, which echoes the presentation of the Parque Indoamericano. In Montevideo, much of the internal structure of the Miguelete remains intact, transformed into spaces for art installations at the recently inaugurated Espacio para Arte Contemporáneo. The transformation of a former jail into a space for aesthetic expression echoes the use of the former ESMA and DEOPS sites, further highlighted by José Pilone’s use of the Miguelete for his performative audiovisual installation El límite. Yet Miguelete’s status as a nonplace of memory is solidified in that while many Tupamaros were detained at the jail before being transferred to the larger prisons at Punta Carretas or Libertad, Miguelete was primarily used to detain common prisoners throughout its history. The public discounting of human rights violations committed against delinquents at Miguelete and Carandiru, largely seen as “privileges for bandits” by the public, reflects the turn to liberal humanitarianism that continues to dominate social discourse on human rights—­despite the notable attempts of activists, academics, and artists to make visible these acts of violence by the state. This disjunction is largely based on differences in class, race, and citizenship, constitutive exclusions of the fusion of the discourses of memory and human rights through the rhetoric of never again. Further work needs to be done on the Parque da Juventude/Carandiru, the Espacio para Arte Contemporáneo/Miguelete, and other nonplaces of cultural memory to interrogate these exclusions and problematize dominant interpretations of the relationship between human rights and memory in postdictatorship. By expanding the frame of this relationship beyond heroic militancy or innocent victimhood, tracing acts of political subjectivation by anonymous nonheroes and nonvictims, such as the protesters who occupied the Parque Indoamericano, perhaps activists, artists, and academics can begin to rearticulate the notion of nunca más/mais as a dissensual tool, open to varied political subjectivities asserting a claim to “rights that they have and rights that they have not,” in the sense developed by Rancière. Idelber Avelar has recently argued that “the thinkers engaged in the critique and investigation of the rhetoric on the human, on the mapping out of the limits of that notion—­and therefore the grounding and the possibility of a discourse on human rights—­had a point when they argued that humanism had always been complicit in the very order that it wanted to replace and overcome.”7 Here he refers to the need to problematize who or what counts as subjects of human rights,

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a problem often ignored in the humanities’ complicit relationship with notions of civil and political rights in liberal humanitarianism. Avelar then defends the need to critically interrogate the notion of human rights in response to a common critique of activists and some academics that critical inquiry through a deconstruction or historicization of the notion of human rights ultimately undermines political action against atrocity. Citing the varied philosophical projects of Jacques Rancière, Jacques Derrida, Giorgio Agamben, and Judith Butler, he argues that “no discourse on human rights would be possible without the sustained and permanent deconstruction of the philosopheme ‘the human’ or of ‘humanity’ as such”8 and maintains that one must continue to do so while also acting “politically to oppose human rights violations wherever they occur. These two goals are not contradictory but complementary.”9 This is precisely what is at stake in the critical examination of cultural spaces dedicated to memory and human rights in the postdictatorial Southern Cone. Problematizing the rhetoric of never again does not belittle the suffering of those who were detained, tortured, and killed by the military dictatorships, nor does it prevent the continued search for juridical truth and justice regarding those who committed these acts. The discourses of memory and human rights are complementary, not coextensive. These concepts can  meet up at certain moments to produce political subjectivation, making visible a claim for social equality and economic justice by subjects excluded from consensual notions of rights, but there is no cause and effect relationship between memory and human rights as the idealized notion of never again insinuates. What we see in the rhetoric of nunca más/mais in the Southern Cone today is a predominately mournful engagement with disappearance, militancy, and resistance that monumentalizes those killed by the military regimes as idealized heroes and victims and ultimately vacates their radical political acts in the name of revolutionary social justice. In order for nonheroic and nonvictimized subjects of human rights and memory to become visible, we must undo the ethical fusion that binds these concepts in the task of bearing witness to the past catastrophe of dictatorship. It is for this reason that I have argued for a dissensual approach to the relation between memory and human rights, one that explores the relationship between the two as a historical regime, constructed and distributed in a specific way in postdictatorship. This conceptual maneuver forces us to reconsider how we engage with the haunting specters of both the defeat of revolutionary politics in the late

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1960s and the thousands of disappeared individuals whose political acts have largely been whitewashed through the turn to liberal humanitarianism and its conceptualization of human rights “as a defense of individual life and human dignity against torture and disappearance.”10 Bruno Bosteels has recently offered a particularly intriguing way to break from this melancholic engagement with specters of the dictatorial past, reading “the ghost or phantasm as a point of departure for a subjective figure of emancipatory politics. . . . [W]e must think of politics . . . not so much as an affair that is objectively inscribed in a set of public spaces, parties, or interests, but as an immanent procedure of subjectivization.”11 For Bosteels, this means “displacing the borders of the political so as to include the everydayness—­the infra-​ordinariness, so to speak—­of those who are the subjects of struggles for justice.”12 Interrogating the notion of never again as the foundational discourse linking memory and human rights allows us to recuperate a notion of the political—­the “politicability”13 of the hero/victim figure of postdictatorial discourse—­in ways other than the consensual rhetoric of civil and political rights and democracy. It makes visible the focus on economic and social interpretations of human rights that guided the political acts of those killed by the military regimes and creates the conditions of possibility for alternative acts of political subjectivation by nonheroes and nonvictims in the present. As Bosteels suggests (in line with Argentine philosopher León Rozitchner), “Politics, when understood at the level of subjectivity, is practiced thought,” not limited to “the referents studied  .  .  . in sociology or history, or even the critique of political economy”14—­or public forums, organized parties, the policies of the state, or, I would add, the institutional missions of cultural sites dedicated to memory and human rights. Instead, Bosteels argues, “when we think politics from within—­that is, subjectively—­it can appear in the least suspected of places, including in art and poetry, many of them considered marginal or unimportant from an external or institutional point of view.”15 This notion of political subjectivation guided my critical analysis of the institutional missions and permanent exhibits at the cultural sites studied in this book, as I sought to place them in dialogue with close readings of temporary art installations in these spaces. In doing so, I explore the tensions between aesthetics and politics that play out in each site and open up fissures for nonheroic and nonvictimized subjects of human rights to appear. All of these spaces incorporate the rhetoric of never again in their mission statements and permanent

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exhibits, constructed through a museological approach couched in the social sciences. While these permanent installations offer an important counterhistory of political subjects affected by state violence throughout history, they ultimately repeat the narrative of heroic resistance or victimized catastrophe always already oriented toward the dictatorial past. However, the numerous temporary art installations in spaces associated with the victims of state terror can reframe our perceptions of who and what are visible as subjects of memory and human rights. The aesthetic interventions I examined do not function as a “sentinel that watches over the victims and keeps the memory of catastrophe alive  .  .  . identifying the work of art with the ethical task of bearing witness, canceling out, once again, both art and politics.”16 Instead, works of visual culture that explore the borders between aesthetics and the political—­such as the Insurreições exhibit at the MDR, the audiovideo installations of Héctor Solari and José Pilone at MUME, and the photography of Sub and the teenagers living in Villa 15 installed at the Conti—­move beyond the ethical coupling of memory and human rights in postdictatorship. Aesthetic interventions such as these reopen the processes of political subjectivation as practiced thought, exceeding the institutionalized sites into which they are inscribed, thus creating a dissensual cut where anonymous, nonethical human rights subjectivities become visible in both the past and the present.

Notes

Introduction 1. Although the police claimed to be using rubber bullets that were fired at the ground, video evidence of police shooting at the crowd and forensic proof that lead bullets were indeed used confirm that the deaths and numerous gunshot injuries were caused by the police. Despite this evidence, police personnel were acquitted of any wrongdoing, and repeated attempts to reopen the case have failed. Some newspaper articles discussing the occupation and its effects include Pedro Paulin, “Violento desalojo en Villa Soldati: dos muertos y decenas de heridos,” Clarín, December 8, 2010, http:​//www​.clarin​.com​/ciudades​/Violento​-desalojo​-Villa​-Soldati​-heridos​ _0​_386361457​.html; Pedro Pualin and Paulo Novillo, “El parque indoamericano quedó otra vez ocupado,” Clarín, December 9, 2010, http:​ //www​ . clarin​ . com​ / capital​ _ federal​ / Parque​ - Indoamericano​ - quedo​ - vez​ -ocupado​_0​_386961429​.html; and “Confirman que son cuatro los muertos por la violencia en Soldati,” Clarín, December 13, 2010, http:​//www​.clarin​ .com​/politica​/Confirman​-muertos​-violencia​-Soldati​_0​_389361211​.html. 2. This second attack on the occupiers was later discovered to be orchestrated largely by political groups and included the participation of “hooligans” who threatened the occupiers with weapons. Two hooligans, Julio Capella and Diego Gerino, were later indicted for public intimidation for their role in the violence. See “Indoamericano: Procesan a dos barras por ‘intimidación política,’ ” Clarín, September 16, 2011, http:​// www​.clarin​.com​/ciudades​/Indoamericano​-procesan​-barras​-intimidacion​ -publica​_0​_555544667​.html. 3. City of Buenos Aires, Public Order Number 47533. 4. “Enlace la memoria colectiva de nuestro doloroso pasado marcado por el terrorismo de Estado con un futuro de creciente vigencia de los derechos humanos, precisamente en la zona sur de la ciudad, la más castigada por las desigualidades y la exclusión” (Ana Inés López Accotto, “Informe sobre el estado actual del paseo,” Amigos del Paseo de los Derechos Humanos (blog), August 2, 2010 (4:06 pm), http:​ //paseoddhh​ .blogspot​ .com​ .ar). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. 197

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5. “El intento de resolver el conflicto reprimiendo con la fuerza policial el justo reclamo de vivienda digna de miles de familias” (AAPDDHH, “El paseo de los derechos humanos debe ser terminado y habilitado,” December 20, 2010, http:​//www​.memoriaabierta​.org​.ar​/p​_ddhh​/novedades​.html. 6. “Para lograr una sociedad más justa y solidaria, donde el derecho a la vivienda digna sea consagrado y practicado como todos los otros derechos. Tal fue el anhelo de nuestros compañeros desaparecidos. Y es hoy nuestro proprio anhelo” (Ibid.). 7.  http:​//www​.buenosaires​.gob​.ar​/areas​/med​_ambiente​/gestion​_ambiental​ /biodiversidad​_urbana​/paseo​_derechos​_humanos​.php?menu​_id=20392. 8. Slaughter 2007, 13. 9. Ibid., 5. 10. Ibid., 16. 11. Ibid. 12. There has been much recent dialogue with Rancière’s work in Latin American cultural studies by such authors as Bruno Bosteels (2012), Alberto Moreiras (2006), Néstor García Canclini (2010), Gabriela Montaldo (2010, 2014), Benjamín Arditi (2008), Abraham Acosta (2014), Silvia L. López (2014), Sergio Villalobos-​Ruminott (2013), and Fernando J. Rosenberg (2016). As Montaldo notes in an introductory essay to a recent collection published in Parallax reflecting upon engagement with Rancière, “Rancière’s reception in Latin America can be read within the framework of ideological empathy, whereby Rancière acts at once as a philosopher, critic and committed intellectual. . . . In fact, much of Rancière’s own participation has been through debates or dialogues with local intellectuals and artists. . . . This process is characterized by a clear political choice and the reorganization of the intellectual scene, that is, the selection of a different dynamic for the geopolitics of knowledge” (Montaldo 2014, 335–­36). 13. Rancière 1999, x–­xi. 14. For Rancière, philosophy itself is a space of disagreement “bound, owing to its own problematic homonymy, to work on homonymies: man, politics, art, justice, science, language, freedom, love, work, and so on. . . . [E]very homonymy arranges a space of thought and of action, and that the problem is therefore neither to eliminate the prestige of homonymy, nor to take names back to a radical indetermination, but to deploy the intervals which put the homonymy to work” (Rancière 2010, 218). 15. Rancière 1999, xii. 16. Ibid., 29. 17. Ibid., 29–­30, my emphasis.

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18. Rancière 2010, 69. 19. On Collective Memory (Halbwachs) and Realms of Memory (Nora). 20. Huyssen 2003, 17. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid., 7 23. Young 2000, 15. Young is perhaps the most influential scholar working on the relationship between art, monuments, and memory of the Holocaust, his work often cited by those studying memory, art, and memorial sites in postdictatorial Latin America. See Young (1993, 2000), for example. 24. “Que la memoria esté inscripta en un lugar específico y con un sentido unívoco, o que haya multiplicidad de niveles de sentido para diferentes públicos . . . no niega la posibilidad de un funcionamiento más dinámico y movible de la territorialidad de la memoria” (Jelin and Langland 2003, 13–­14). 25. “El monumento o el lugar histórico puede también no tener una materialidad o una localización física sino ser un espacio intelectual . . . puede estar constituido por el propio ámbito del debate académico” (Achugar 2003, 210). 26. Rancière 2010, 72. 27. Rancière 2010, 75. 28. I share the view of critics such as Willy Thayer, Nelly Richard, and Idelber Avelar (Richard and Moreiras 2001; Avelar 1999) that the military dictatorships themselves constituted the “real transition’’ (Avelar 1999, 58) to a neoliberal economic model and that the so-​called postdictatorial transition to democracy was a continuation of this project. In Brazil, similar arguments have been put forth by Jorge Zaverucha (1994) and Evaldo Viera (2000), and in Uruguay by Vania Markarian (2005) and Eugenia Allier Montaño (2001, 2010). 29. The most important of these laws were the Ley de Punto Final (1986) and Ley de Debida Obedencia (1987) in Argentina; the Lei de Anistia (1979) in Brazil; and the Ley de la Caducidad de la Pretensión Punitiva del Estado (1986) in Uruguay. 30. Some examples of narratives that did not employ the testimonio style which dominated this period but were recognized for critical engagement with the initial phase of postdictatorship are Argentine Ricardo Piglia’s La respiración artificial (Artificial Respiration, 1980), Brazilian Silviano Santiago’s Stella Manhattan (1985), and Uruguayan Cristina Peri Rossi’s La nave de los locos (The ship of the insane; 1984), among others. 31. For example, CONADEP 1984; Arquidiocese de São Paulo 1985; SERPAJ 1989; Sosnowski 1988; Reati 1992.

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32. A notable exception here is the work of Brazilian literary critic Flora Süssekind, whose Literatura e vida literária: Polêmicas, diários e retratos (Literature and literary life: Polemics, journals, and portraits; 1985) anticipates the critique of the testimonial or the romance reportagem in the second postdictatorial moment, arguing that this genre “tends to conceal fractures and divisions by constructing identities and reinforcing acritical nationalisms [tende a ocultar fraturas e divisões, a construir identidades e reforçar nacionalismos pouco críticos]” (Süssekind 1985, 45). This book was also republished in 2004, at the height of the so-​called memory boom in the region. 33. This relationship between institutional changes and cultural production is the central theme explored in Rebecca Atencio’s Memory’s Turn: Reckoning with Dictatorship in Brazil (2014). 34. We can consider the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo—­Línea Fundadora as largely articulating notions of civil and political human rights from within the discourse of humanitarianism, focused primarily on the lives of their disappeared children. This is contrasted with the Asociación Madres de la Plaza de Mayo founded by Hebe Bonafini, which has a more contestatory approach that seeks to recuperate the political convictions of their disappeared children through social critique in the present, largely connected with social and economic rights. 35. Hijos e Hijas por la Identidad y la Justicia contra el Olvido y el Silencio (Sons and Daughters for Identity and Justice and against Forgetting and Silence). 36. Sarlo’s critique of the testimonio genre, the “memory industry,” and the subjective turn of cultural memory to engage with dictatorship and its effects echoes many of the arguments by Jelin and Vezzetti. Yet, her critique of the capacity of younger generations to offer critical reinterpretations of postdictatorial memory—­highlighted by her dismissal of Marianne Hirsch’s notion of postmemory as “monotonous” and unable to think through “difference” (2005, 142) and a critical view of the apolitical “subjective” cultural memory offered in Albertina Carri´s Los rubios (153)—­differentiates her approach from that of Jelin and Vezzetti. I would suggest, for example, that Hirsch’s concept of postmemory does indeed incorporate the multiple and conflictive memory narratives articulated by those who did not live a given experience, in line with the general arguments of both Jelin and Vezzetti. I would also contend, contra Sarlo and others who have critiqued Los rubios for eliding the political militancy of her disappeared parents, that Carri’s refusal to represent her parents as heroic figures in the film is in fact a political act, in that it disrupts the

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(counter)hegemonic logic that determines what does or does not count as cultural memory in postdictatorship. 37. Jelin 2003, 53. 38. Ibid., 96. 39. “El objeto de una lucha por las significaciones del pasado que permanece vigente, activo, en el presente, es importante considerar su capacidad para mantener una relación de indagación, que reúna la rememoración y la intelección con vistas a un futuro diferente” (Vezzetti 2002, 34). 40. “Las figuras del trauma, del duelo y de la melancolía pasaron a ser las figuras emblemáticas de un cierto pensamiento crítico de la postdictadura (el golpe como trauma, el duelo como pérdida de objeto y la melancolía como suspensión irresuelta del duelo)” (Richard and Moreiras 2001, 104). 41. “El imperativo ético de proteger los restos de la desgracia que fracturó marcos de existencia y categorías de pensamiento . . . evitando que el recuerdo busque consuelo en cómodas restituciones o sustituciones” (ibid., 14). 42. “A desmontar y reinventar el orden de las representaciones de época que pretenden alinear voces y subjetividades en dócil correspondencia con las modulaciones seriales de la actualidad neoliberal . . . para que lo afectado logre también afectar” (ibid., their emphasis). 43. In addition to Richard, Avelar, and Moreiras, the authors who contributed to the Pensar en/la postdictadura include Jon Beasley-​ Murray, Brett Levinson, Ana del Sarto, Herman Herlinghaus, Andrea Giunta, Sergio Villalobos-​Ruminott, Ana Longoni, and Willy Thayer. 44. Ros 2012. 45. The short stories by Sosa and Mardero are examined in detail by Ros (2012, 190–­96). 46. Rajca 2014, 90. I use the term (counter)hegemonic to refer to the closure of a system of logic and thought between a hegemonic and counterhegemonic discourse. My thinking in this area has been largely influenced by theoretical approaches to subalternity and hegemony in Latin America articulated by Alberto Moreiras in The Exhaustion of Difference (2001) and Gareth Williams in The Other Side of the Popular (2002). 47. Williams 2002, 20. 48. Ibid., 19 49. Hesford 2011, 7. 50. Rancière 2010, 62. 51. Ibid., 63. Here Rancière critiques the reflections regarding human rights made by Arendt in The Origins of Totalitarianism related to stateless

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refugees, noting the paradox that the only “real” rights of man belong to citizens of a nation-​state. Arendt argues that the “paradox involved in the loss of human rights is that such loss coincides with the instant when a person becomes a human being in general—­without a profession, without a citizenship, without an opinion  .  .  . representing nothing but his own absolutely unique individuality which, deprived of expression within and action upon a common world, loses all significance” (Arendt 1968, 301). 52. Rancière 2010, 66. 53. Ibid., 66–­67. 54. Ibid., 66. 55. Ibid., 69 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid. 70–­71. 58. Ibid., 68. 59. Ibid., 200. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid., 201. 62. Ibid. 63. Bilbija and Payne 2011, 15. 64. Moreiras 2007, 166. 65. Ibid., 166 66. Moreiras 2001, 280. 67. Moreiras 2007, 168. 68. While Moreiras specifically uses literature as an example here, I suggest that this can be applied to all aesthetic production, including film and the visual arts. 69. See Moreiras 2006. 70. Moreiras 2007, 173. 71. Bosteels 2012, 302. 72. Ibid., 301. 73. Ibid., 309. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid. 76. Ibid., 306. 77. Ibid., 304. 78. Ibid. 79. Ibid. 80. Ibid., 23. Also note that while Bosteels spells the term subjectivization, I have followed the spelling subjectivation used by the translator of Rancière (2010). Both are accepted spellings for the term in English that I

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take to refer to the same set of processes in both Bosteels’s and Rancière’s work. 81. See Bosteels (2010) and Moreiras (2014), for example. 82. Rancière 2010, 140. 83. Ibid., 218. 84. Ibid., 148. 85. Richard has consistently produced critical inquiry on aesthetic interventions that seek to destabilize dominant ways of viewing the world—­from her critical collaboration with the artists, writers, and performances of the Chilean Colectivo Acciones de Arte (CADA) groups beginning in 1979 (what she has called la escena de la avanzada [the vanguard scene]) to the continued examination of the disruptive possibilities of art in society in the present. See for example Richard (2000, 2004a, 2004b). For an excellent analysis of the relationship between politics and aesthetics in the escena de la avanzada in postdictatorial Chile, see Villalobos-​Ruminott (2013), especially chapter 3. 86. “Rechazar el binarismo de una oposición simple entre, por un lado, la autorreferencia del arte y, por otro, el arte socialmente comprometido, es decir, entre la política del significado y las poéticas del significante” (Richard 2007, 92, her emphasis). 87. “entre forma y contenido para interrogar, más bien, las operaciones de signos y las técnicas de representación que median entre lo artístico y lo social” (ibid., her emphasis). 88. Canclini 2014, 171. 89. Ibid. 90. Rancière 2010, 149. 91. “Desatar una revuelta de la imaginación que mueva las significaciones establecidas por los repertorios oficiales hacia los bordes de no certidumbre y de ambigüedad del sentido, cuya experiencia de la sorpresa haga que la relación mirada/imagen se torne siempre otra para sí misma” (Richard 2007, 104). 92. Canclini 2014, 172. 93. Here I concur with the arguments of Samuel Moyn regarding the development of contemporary human rights discourse, which I discuss further in chapter 1. 94. Draper 2012, 160. 95. Hesford 2011, 7. 96. Ibid., 8 97. Ibid. 98. Rosenberg 2016, 9.

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Chapter 1 1. The term “never again” emerged as a call to act against mass genocide in the wake of the systematic murder of millions of Jews by the Nazi regime during the Holocaust, gaining increased visibility as a universal slogan of human rights in the wake of the Nuremburg trials and the 1948 United Nations Genocide Convention. The phrase has been primarily evoked as a condemnation of other events of state-​sponsored terror, such as in Latin America from the 1960s to 1980s or Rwanda and Bosnia in the early 1990s. See P. Williams (2007) for a discussion of “never again” and genocide in relation to memorial museums. Yet the term has also been appropriated as a justification for mass violence by right-​wing nationalist groups and governments, such as Jewish Defense League founder Meir Kahane’s 1970 book Never Again! and the military dictatorship in Argentina, who wrote Nunca más! “in their Final Report, claiming eternal victory over subversion” (Feitlowitz 1998, 90). More recently, we find an activist citationality of nunca más with the usage of the term “ni una menos [not one less]” to combat femicide and abuse of women in Latin America. Here, I focus particularly on the notion of nunca más/mais articulated in the reports published in Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay in the wake of dictatorial regimes, and the consequential conceptual relationship between memory and human rights in postdictatorial culture that they helped to establish. 2. Here, I am referring to the “postdictatorial moment” immediately preceding and following the “transition” to indirect democratic governments in each country (late 1970s to mid 1980s). Within this postdictatorial moment, the turn to liberal humanitarianism, which focused on civil/political rights by ex-​revolutionaries as opposed to a justice platform of social and economic human rights, is consistent in all three countries and is largely reflected in the language of the nunca más/mais texts. 3. Markarian 2005, 141. 4. Ibid., 178. 5. Ibid. 6. Crenzel 2012, 26. 7. Ibid., 27. 8. “O projeto revolucionário transmudou-​se em resistência democrática contra a ditadura. . . . As organizações revolucionárias . . . foram recriadas como alas extremadas da resistência democrática” (Reis Filho 2004, 48). 9. Martín-​Cabrera 2011, 214. 10. Richard 2004b, 4. 11. Crenzel 2012, 31.

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12. Markarian 2005, 170. 13. “A luta das esquerdas armadas só teria legitimidade se considerada como parte da resistência democrática à ditadura” (Ridenti 2004, 59). 14. Richard 2004b, 21. 15. Avelar 1999, 67. 16. Attempting to think beyond the dominant dual figure of victim/hero leads both Richard and Avelar to Benjamin’s notions of ruins and catastrophe in the second postdictatorial moment, as a way to break out of the dominant language of postdictatorial memory consecrated by dictatorship. For these critics, the golpe was a catastrophe of meaning, leaving only the “fraudulent language spoken by the official power” and the “ideological mold of militant art” to explain the “fragments of experience” of postdictatorship (Richard 2004b, 5). 17. Avelar 1999, 67. 18. Richard 2004b, 5. 19. Ibid. 20. Atencio 2014, 14. 21. As Pilar Calveiro notes, “The turn [recurso] to the figure of the innocent victim was part of the triumph of the military project, an armed as well as political and ideological victory, which not only eliminated a particular alternative form of politics, but also the ‘dissapearance’ of politics itself, its validity and meaning as collective social practice [El recurso a la figura de la víctima inocente fue parte del triunfo del proyecto militar, un triunfo armado pero también político y ideológico, que logró no sólo la eliminación de una alternativa política específica sino la ‘desaparición’ de la política misma, de su validez y sentido como práctica social colectiva]” (Calveiro 2007, 57). 22. Avelar 1999, 59. 23. Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948). Accessed at http:​// www​.un​.org​/en​/universal​-declaration​-human​-rights​/. 24. Ibid. 25. Moyn 2010, 225. 26. Ibid., 8. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid., 220–­21. 29. “Cuando los textos se refieren al concepto de violación de los dd.hh. se hace mención exclusiva a algunos derechos civiles y políticos” (Marchesi 2001, 15). 30. Here I want to make clear that I am not ignoring the historical context in which these reports were produced, nor am I questioning their

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juridical importance in documenting the human rights violations committed by the military dictatorships. Nor is my intent to negate the sacrifice and suffering of those who challenged the military dictatorships in various ways. My aim is to examine the discourse that frames this testimonial documentation, revealing the rhetoric of liberal humanitarianism that guides the interpretation of the nunca más/mais texts and serves as a foundational inscription of the ethical fusion of memory and human rights in the postdictatorial Southern Cone. 31. CONADEP 1986, 1. 32. A new prologue was added in the 1995 version of the text, one that seeks to complicate the simplistic notion of the dos demonios and to repoliticize the lives of the desaparecidos. For a detailed comparison and analysis of the two texts see Crenzel (2008). 33. CONADEP 1986, 1. 34. Ibid., 4. 35. Ibid. 36. “Desamparados, muchos de ellos adolescentes” (CONADEP 1984, 10). Here, I highlight a piece of the original Spanish text omitted from the English translation. The translated English text from 1986 is “unfortunate people who were abandoned by the world.” CONADEP 1986, 5. 37. CONADEP 1986, 3. 38. Ibid., 4 (my emphasis). My emphasis on terms in CONADEP 1984, 9. 39. Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, 9. 40. The official title, The Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, was ratified by the United Nations on December 10, 1984. 41. Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, xxvi. 42. Ibid., xxii. 43. Ibid., 3 (my emphasis). 44. Ibid., xxiii. 45. Ibid. 46. It is important to point out that many activist groups have made this same critique and worked to open up the notion of nunca mais to nonpolitical subjects. Perhaps the best known is the Grupo Tortura Nunca Mais. See Brito (2003). However, both in 1985 and presently, “the middle class remains much less perturbed by arbitrary violence directed against poor people than by political violence directed against middle-​class students and professionals” (Weschler 1990, 75). This, I argue, echoes the effects of eliding the struggle for economic and social justice as the political

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motivations for these middle-​class students and professionals and marks the limits of the notion of nunca mais. 47. Despite the attempt to overturn the Ley de Caducidad through the Voto Verde campaign, the measure failed and military personnel retained impunity for human rights violations committed during the dictatorship. The law was upheld again by vote in 2009 and by a Supreme Court decision in 2013. 48. SERPAJ 1992, vii. 49. Ibid., vii. 50. The introduction to the original text in Spanish is not included in the 1992 English translation, replaced by a new introduction written specifically for English-​speaking audiences by Lawrence Weschler. As such, translations of the introduction are my own, and I include the Spanish original. An abridged version of the original preface was translated by Hampsten into English. Throughout this section, I note where I have translated abridged portions of the original preface. 51. SERPAJ 1992, viii. The phrase “to security of person” [a la integridad de la vida]” is missing from the 1992 translation of this sentence. 52. “Humana condición de víctimas” (SERPAJ 1989, 15). 53. “Las banderas de esos hombres y mujeres que fueron torturados, desaparecidos, asesinados, injustamente encarcelados, exiliados” (ibid.). 54. “Al rechazar el carácter políticamente comprometido de este libro queremos que se descarte la impresión que esta es una obra ‘de y para’ los que coinciden con la postura política de las personas perseguidas por la dictadura uruguaya” (ibid., 14). 55. “Un valor tan alto que merece que sus derechos sean defendidos” (ibid., 15). 56. “Y está la impunidad. La de los criminales y los violadores, no sólo de mujeres indefensas sino también de todo tipo de derechos humanos. La tortura, la prisión por razones ideológicas, la desaparición forzada, la coordinación represiva y tantas otras maneras de conculcar derechos elementales se dieron en el marco de la doctrina de la Seguridad Nacional. Se implementaron técnicas de terrorismo de Estado para dominar y desmovilizar al pueblo, sumiendo en la inseguridad a todos sus habitantes” (ibid., 7). The 1992 English translation eliminates the double meaning of violar in Spanish (violate/rape) and the gendered reference to “defenseless women” found in the first sentence of the Spanish text: “There is the matter of the law that is allowing criminals and rapists to have acted with no fear of punishment when they denied any number of elementary rights in the name of national security” (SERPAJ 1992, ix).

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57. Article 3 of the UDHR: “Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.” 58. “Mutilar, lastimar, violentar la integridad de la vida se volvió habitual. Producir sufrimiento indiscriminadamente vulnerando todas las libertades y las seguridades para la integridad de la vida se transformó en la mejor garantía de una Seguridad Nacional que nadie eligió” (SERPAJ 1989, 7). These sentences were eliminated in the 1992 translation. 59. SERPAJ 1992, x. 60. CONADEP 1986, 2. 61. Ibid., 2. 62. Ibid., 5. 63. Ibid., 2. 64. Ibid., 6. 65. Pope John XXIII’s 1963 encyclical Pacem in Terris is generally seen as the foundational linkage between Catholicism and human rights. In the Southern Cone, while the official institutions of the Catholic Church supported the military dictatorships in the region, certain individuals and groups influenced by this encyclical and the notion of liberation theology were active in human rights activism that entailed a “transcendence of politics in the name of coalitional moral norms” (Moyn 2010, 146). Cardinal Evaristo Arns and the World Council of Churches are examples of this “human rights Catholicism,” which coincided with the global turn toward ethical humanitarianism. For more on the contradictory roles played by sectors of the church during the military dictatorship in Brazil, see Serbin (2000). 66. Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, v. 67. Ibid. 68. Ibid. 69. Ibid., xxv. 70. Ibid., xxviii. 71. Ibid. 72. Ibid., xxi. 73. Ibid., xxiii. 74. Ibid., xxiii–­xxiv. 75. “Fazemos isso em nome de Cristo, que foi torturado e crucificado para que tivéssemos vida em toda a sua plenitude” (Arquidiocese de São Paulo 1985, 18–­19). This reference to Christ is eliminated in the 1986 translation, which combines this line with the previous sentence to read “to discern our true being through the disfigured faces of the tortured and crucified so that we may have life in all its fullness” (Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, xxiv).

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76. Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, xxiv. 77. Avelar 1999, 67. This is one of the discursive devices in testimonials related to the Southern Cone dictatorships (the other being “macho militarism”) that Avelar argues demonstrate that “the dictatorship achieved a fundamental victory, for the language in which its atrocities were narrated was, in its essence, the very same language that it cultivated and promoted” (ibid.). 78. SERPAJ 1992, vii. 79. “La profundidad de las lastimaduras en el alma del pueblo. Las llagas abiertas, la infección dejada en el cuerpo social, en la identidad del pueblo uruguayo” (SERPAJ 1989, 7). The 1992 translation by Elizabeth Hampsten (ix) leaves out the first part of the sentence. 80. Huyssen 2003, 13. Huyssen argues that the Holocaust has been detached from a specific historical event of genocide and is often invoked as “a universal trope for historical trauma” in different social contexts. 81. SERPAJ 1989, 7; SERPAJ 1992, ix. 82. Ibid. 83. SERPAJ 1992, x. Both Megele and Barbie escaped to South America after World War II to avoid punishment for their crimes against humanity, adding another level of meaning to the notion of “roaming our streets” in the citation. 84. Huyssen 2003, 98. 85. CONADEP 1986, 6. 86. Archdiocese of São Paulo 1986, 3. 87. Ibid., 8. 88. “La consolidación institucional y democrática a la que todos aspiramos luego de la ruptura tan traumática de todo el edificio social y legal, pasa por restablecer la actitud ética en todos sus niveles y en todas sus instituciones” (SERPAJ 1989, 9). This sentence is not included in the 1992 translation. 89. SERPAJ 1992, xi (my emphasis). 90. “Quizás un principio rector nos ha ido conduciendo sin saberlo. El de que la historia generalmente no registra más que los gestos y las palabras de aquellos que de alguna manera pudieron aferrarse a la vida, darle un sentido y expresarlo. Pero hay multitudes de hombres, mujeres y niños a quienes se les ha impedido la dignidad mediante el atropello, el terror o la mentira. Y por eso se han callado. Las víctimas que pudieron quejarse, y cuyas voces fueron escuchadas, tuvieron mejor suerte. Nos toca a nosotros mostrar el reverso de la palabra y de la luz. Quienes tuvimos suerte debemos hacernos responsables de ese silencio y de esa sombra que proyecta

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nuestra historia uruguaya para no ser cómplices de ella” (SERPAJ 1989, 10). Hampsten’s translation condenses this paragraph: “Our single aim is to bring to light what has been clouded over by silence, for if those of us who survived do not give voice to those who have been silenced, we ourselves become accomplices in that silence” (SERPAJ 1992, xi). 91. SERPAJ 1992, xii. 92. Ibid. 93. “Memórias da resistência e da repressão políticas do periódo republicano brasileiro” (MDR Mission Statement, http:​//memorialdaresistenciasp​ .org​.br​/memorial​/default​.aspx?mn=18&c=84&s=0). 94. “La construcción de la memoria sobre el terrorismo de Estado y la lucha del pueblo uruguayo contra la dictadura” (MUME Mission Statement, http:​//mume​.montevideo​.gub​.uy​/museo​/centro​-cultural​-museo​-de​-la​ -memoria). 95. “Ámbito de homenaje a las víctimas y de condena a los crímenes de lesa humanidad cometidos durante el terrorismo de Estado” (EMPDDHH Mission Statement, http:​//www​.espaciomemoria​.ar​/espaciohoy​.php). 96. “A valorização de princípios democráticos, do exercício da cidadania e da conscientização sobre direitos humanos” (MDR Mission Statement). 97. “La promoción de los derechos humanos y la memoria de la lucha por la libertad, la democracia y la justicia social” (MUME Mission Statement). 98. “Promoción de valores democráticos y de defensa de los derechos humanos” (EMPDHH Mission Statement). 99. Remedi 2009, 73. 100. Bilbija and Payne 2011, 25. 101. For example: “The cry ‘Never Again’ engages the value and constructive use of time and memory” (1); “ ‘Never Again’ has become the slogan for the purposeful action of remembering past atrocity” (15); “A never again enterprise has emerged as a catalyst to human rights action” (16); “building solidarity around ‘Never Again’ ” (22); “protect memory goods and promote the ‘Never Again’ goal” (36). 102. Ibid., 23 103. Ibid., 18–­20. 104. Ibid., 18. 105. Crenzel 2012, 144. 106. Caldeira 2000, 341. 107. Ibid., 341–­42. 108. Lorenzano 2009, 251. 109. Ibid., 251.

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110. Ibid., 252. 111. Méndez, O’Donnel, and Pinheiro 1999, 20. 112. Moreiras 2001, 262. 113. Rancière 2010, 200. 114. Ibid., 189. 115. Huyssen 2003, 8. 116. Ibid., 9. 117. Huyssen 2009, 5. 118. Ibid. 119. Slaughter 2007, 182. 120. Ibid., 183. 121. Ibid., 183–­84. 122. Atencio 2014, 8. 123. Rosenberg 2016, 11–­12. 124. Ibid. 125. Moyn 2014, 146. 126. Ibid., 145. 127. Ibid., 146. 128. Draper 2012, 5. 129. Ibid., 17. 130. Ibid., 9. 131. Ibid., 84. 132. Ibid., 171. 133. Ibid. 134. Ibid., 174. 135. Ibid., 198. 136. Ibid. 137. Rancière 2010, 202.

Chapter 2 1. It is not my intent to provide a detailed history on the transformations of the space here. For more information on the renovations of the DEOPS building in São Paulo and the debates surrounding these processes, see Araujo et al. (2009) and Atencio (2014). 2. “Se no espaço geográfico onde se situa o prédio vemos hoje o espetáculo renovado de condutas que se consideram como ‘marginais a uma sociedade civilizada’? Vemos pessoas desprovidas de qualquer bem vagando e dormindo nas ruas, há o consumo de drogas incessante que provoca

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violências e desagregação social, e as rondas policiais tratam a todos como violentos marginais e não como vítimas de uma sociedade desigual e injusta” (Araujo et al. 2009, 207). 3. Caldeira and Holston 1999, 695. 4. Ibid. 5. Pinheiro 2009, 206. 6. Ibid. 7. Caldeira and Holston 1999, 700. For an in-​depth analysis and discussion of these themes, see Caldeira (2000) and Holston (2008). 8. ”Já não serão apenas os feitos dos resistentes no século XX que estarão em discussão, mas sim a realidade dos dias atuais” (Araujo et al. 2009, 207). 9. For example, Museu do Imaginário do Povo Brasileiro (Museum of the Imaginary of the Brazilian People); Memorial do Cárcere (Prison Memorial); Memorial da Liberdade (Freedom Memorial). 10. For an excellent analysis of the play and its interaction with the space of the ex-​DEOPS, see Atencio (2014). 11. See Araujo et al. (2009) for more information. 12. Ibid. 13. “Este livro-​relatório registra para a história o resgate dessa memória. Só conhecendo profundamente os porões e as atrocidades daquele lamentável período de nossa vida republicana, o País saberá construir instrumentos eficazes para garantir que semelhantes violações dos Direitos Humanos não se repitam nunca mais” (CEMDP 2007, 17). 14. The ADNB exhibit has been presented in cultural centers throughout Brazil since 2006, most recently at the Memorial da América Latina in São Paulo in 2014. 15. “E nos lembramos, Temos o direito de lembrar, o direito à memória. Queremos saber mais, o direito à verdade.” Throughout this section, all quotes and discussion of images in the ADNB exhibit are based on my personal visits to, and documenation of, the installation at the Memorial da Resistência in 2008. 16. “Obscuros personagens . . . dos humilhados e ofendidos explorados e oprimidos que tentaram encontrar a solução.” 17. Huyssen 2003, 35. 18. Langland 2013, 135. Langland examines the “masculine militancy” (ibid., 45) performed by the all-​male leadership of groups such as UNE and how “student assertions of militancy rested on masculinist and heteronormative assumptions” (4) in multiple sections of Speaking of Flowers, discourses that are visually reproduced in the ADNB exhibit.

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19. “Estudante era profissão perigosa. Em 64, 67, 68, 77, 78, 84 saíram em passeata, comícios-​relâmpago, encontros clandestinos. Resistiram e gritaram por liberdade nos campus, e nas ruas.” 20. Many academics refer to Lima Souto using his first names, Edson Luis, as is common practice for naming both formal and familiar figures in Brazilian Portuguese. Here, I have chosen to use last names when referring to people or artists in Brazil, as is the practice for academic writing in English. 21. Gaspari 2002, 278. 22. For a detailed account of Edson Luis Souto’s death and its use as a symbol of state repression and the resistance of the student movement in Brazil, see Langland 2013, 107–­26. 23. This displacement echoes the performative use of Souto’s death and body in the aftermath of his murder to transform him into an “abstracted student and symbol of innocent youth” (Langland 2013, 115) through whom critiques of the violence and policies of the military regime could be articulated at a national level. Students and politicians focused on his status as a nonmilitant, poor, migrant student to criticize “both the economic and educational difficulties left unresolved by the regime and the limited political expression it allowed” (120). 24. Avelar 1999, 65. 25. Langland 2013, 116. 26. A 1967 film directed by Anatole Litvak dealing with military violence and authoritarianism during World War II. 27. See Taylor (1997). 28. This is highlighted in other parts of the exhibit, such as the textual description of the so-​called Batalha da Rua Antónia (Battle of Antónia Street) between “estudantes [students]” of the left-​ leaning philosophy department of the Universidade de São Paulo and “grupos armados [armed groups]” of the conservative Universidade Mackenzie. The use of the term armed groups instead of students to describe the politically conservative Mackenzie students relates to rumors that the Mackenzie students were provided weapons by the clandestine Communist Hunter Command (Comando de Caça aos Comunistas; CCC), but it also reiterates the exclusionary notion of “student” presented throughout the ADNB exhibit. 29. “Tempo de censura, de vozes caladas, de frases não ditas e, se escritas, não lidas.” 30. See chapters 4 and 5 in Dunn (2001) for an excellent discussion and analysis of this.

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31. “Metalúrgicos param em 1978 anunciando o começo do fim da ditadura. Greves em todo o país desafiam as leis impostas pelo regime militar.” 32. For more on this tendency towards self-​promotion in the recuperation of memory about dictatorship by Lula and his cabinet, see Schneider (2011). 33. “A ideologia da resistência democrática” (Ridenti 2004, 58). 34. “Atribui a retomada da democracia no Brasil  .  .  . em parte à luta heróica das esquerdas armadas” (ibid.). 35. MR-​8 The October 8 Revolutionary Movment (Movimento Revolucionario—­8 de Outubro, referring to the date of Che Guevara’s death) and ALN—­National Liberatory Action (Ação Libertadora Nacional). 36. “Resistência Resistentes, Organizações de esquerda pegaram em armas para enfrentar a ditadura. Guerrilha urbana, Araguaia. Mortos e desaparecidos, exilados internos e externos, clandestinos.” 37. Avelar 1999, 65. 38. Here I am not suggesting that the use of violence by the armed organizations was equal to that of the military regime; rather I am problematizing the lack of critical reflection upon the use of violence and the authoritarian military structures of these groups in the exhibit forty years later. 39. “As esquerdas armadas nunca propuseram um mero retorno à democracia nos moldes do pré-​1964, tampouco algo que prefigurasse a institucionalidade que viria a se constituir no Brasil depois do final da ditadura” (Ridenti 2004, 58). 40. Political parties were illegal during much of the dictatorship, and while many groups were able to engage in political activities beginning in the late 1970s, groups associated with the traditional Left such as the PCdoB were allowed to participate as formal political organizations only much later. For this reason, one can understand the desire to highlight the participation of these groups in the political opening in Brazil in the early 1980s. 41. These parties are representative of what José Paulo Netto calls the “esquerda-​movimento,” which rejected the philosophy of the traditional Communist Party and rearticulated the concept of revolution in terms of “social-​democratic reforms.” See Netto (2000). 42. See Zaverucha (1994). 43. Manoel Fiel Filho did not play a leadership role in the metalúrgicos union, was a migrant from the interior of Alagoas, and worked in a bakery and as a fare collector on city buses before becoming a metalworker. See Gaspari 2004, 212.

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44. Cardinal Evaristo Arns, who contributed the preface to Brasil: Nunca mais, presided over the mass, along with Rabbi Henry Sobel and Pastor James Wright. 45. “Transformou-​se em ato público de protesto, com a participação de mais de 10 mil pessoas.” 46. “Só de posse desse conhecimento o País saberá construir instrumentos eficazes para garantir que essas violações dos direitos humanos não se repitam nunca mais.” 47. “O Memorial da Resistência de São Paulo tem como missão a pesquisa, a salvaguarda e a comunicação de referências das memórias da resistência e da repressão políticas do período republicano brasileiro . . . de forma a contribuir para a reflexão crítica acerca da história contemporânea do país e para a valorização de princípios democráticos, do exercício da cidadania e da conscientização sobre os direitos humanos” (MDR Mission Statement). 48. “A conscientização sobre os direitos humanos e a valorização dos princípios democráticos no Brasil contemporâneo.” (Araujo et al. 2009, 13). 49. “O Memorial da Resistência cumpre uma função essencial: não deixar esquecer, para que nunca mais se repitam as atrocidades das ditaduras e o desrespeito aos diretos humanos” (ibid., 16). 50. “Solidariedade, dos princípios democráticos e do respeito à diferença.” Quotations from the long-​term exhibit in this section are based upon my visit to and documentation of the MDR in 2013. 51. “Assegurar—­como prática sistemática—­a apresentação de amplos painéis sobre as práticas da repressão e as ações dos grupos de resistência durante regimes autoritários e militares, e até mesmo democráticos” (Araujo et al. 2009, 48, my emphasis). 52. “Apresentamos um panorama estruturado pelas rupturas e continuidades do tempo político do Brasil republicano . . . os mais distintos processos de controle e repressão, bem como de reações de resistência” (ibid.). 53. “Ampliação da nossa memória coletiva.” 54. “As estratégias ideológicas de exclusão social.” Araujo et al. 2009, 187. 55. “Preconceitos herdados do colonialismo e da Monarquia” (ibid.). 56. Rancière 2010, 145. 57. Rancière contrasts the notion of an ethical community where “everyone is supposed to be counted” (2010, 189), which ultimately depoliticizes the subject of rights and transforms them into absolute victims, with what

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he terms a political community, where a given figure excluded from or appropriated within these counts is able to insert “himself as a supplementary political subject, carrying a right not yet recognized or witnessing an injustice in the existing state of right” (189). 58. “Um guarda com fuzil.” 59. “A vinda ao corredor era uma vez por semana, por uma hora, uma cela de cada vez. Mas nem todos vieram.” 60. “Entre os horrores da repressão e da tortura e as manifestações de afeto e cumplicidade entre aqueles que se viram privados de seus direitos básicos” (Araujo et al. 2009, 90). 61. Caldeira 2000, 341. 62. “Quatro cidadãos brasileiros que perderam a vida em diferentes contextos de resistência à ditadura militar” (Araujo et al. 2009, 84). 63. Rancière 2010, 142. In “The Paradoxes of Political Art,” Rancière unravels dominant notions of critical or political art today, arguing that it “is caught between two types of pedagogy: one that could be called representational mediation [e.g., art exhibit as political activism], and another that we might refer to as ethical immediacy [e.g., aesthetic interventions in public spaces of daily life]” (2010, 137). Rancière’s critique is that this conflation of the concepts of art and politics eliminates the paradoxical relationship between them, always already determining a specific distribution, interpretation, and effect of “political” art that negates the opportunity for dissensual interventions into who or what is included within each of these categories. 64. Rebecca Atencio has also noted the exclusionary effects of how the “memorial subordinates the topic of repression to the larger theme of resistance” (Atencio 2014, 120), resulting in a situation where “some groups and viewpoints are not represented in the space” (119). 65. “Esta sala é uma homenagem a todos eles que lutaram e lutam imbuídos do ideal de justiça e democracia.” 66. The song is officially called “Caminhando [Walking],” and it was the protest anthem sung during marches and other public events by university students guided by a certain militant aesthetic connected with folk music and the traditional Left. See the introduction to Langland (2013) for a historical discussion of the song and its use by student protestors. “Caminhando” was also targeted by those associated with the Tropicália counterculture movement, who were critical of the closed nature of traditional left-​wing militancy and culture for being just as oppressive as the military regime. This was most visible at the 1968 International Song Festival (Festival Internacional da Canção), which pitted Vandré’s “Caminhando”

Notes to Pages 89–99

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against Caetano Veloso’s purposefully incendiary performance of “É proibido proibir [It’s forbidden to prohibit],” which Christopher Dunn calls a “watershed ‘happening’ in the history of Brazilian popular music” (Dunn 2001, 135). For an excellent discussion of this conflict, see Dunn (2001, 129–­38). 67. This echoes Rebecca Atencio’s suggestion that the Memorial da Resistência is both an institutional “formula” and a cultural “wedge” in postdictatorship that “demonstrates the contingent quality of many institutional mechanisms, especially official memorials, which are often perpetual sites of struggle between formula and wedge tendencies” (Atencio 2014, 127). 68. Rancière 2010, 183. 69. While I focus on Insurreições here, some other intriguing exhibits that explore the relationship between politics and aesthetics beyond a testimonial discourse of resistance and nation include Ausenc’as (2015)—­Gustavo Germano; Liberdade (2012)—­Carlos Vergara; Buena Memoria: Um ensaio fotográfico (2011)—­Marcelo Brodsky; and Artistas Nipo-​Brasileiros Durante a Segunda Guerra Mundial—­Esperança nos trópicos (2009) curated by Ana Paula Nascimento. 70. The exhibit was installed at the MDR from April 6 to July 14, 2013. 71. “Um lugar de memória que se dedica à preservação das memórias políticas . . . compartilhar o espaço com um museu de arte” (Insurreições 2013). 72. “Aproxima a resistência política da expressão artística” (ibid.). 73. “. . . Margarida—­Fundão 2 . . . as vezes da cadeia” / Dos parceiros da cela 1 e principalmente do autor” (ibid.). 74. Pieces by Yoshia (as well as Radha Abramo) are included in the exhibit in a section entitled “Solidariedade [Solidarity],” which highlights their visitation of prisoners and work in providing art classes to the incarcerated. 75. Lesser 2007, xxii. 76. Ibid., 76. 77. Sipahi is Alípio Freire’s partner and also contributed to the organization and presentation of Insurreições, though she is not officially credited as a curator. 78. Insurreições 2013. 79. The category of “disappeared” in Brazil generally refers to those who were killed for “political” reasons during the military dictatorship, which according to the 2014 report of the Comissão Nacional da Verdade (National Truth Commision, CNV) officially numbered 434 people.

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Notes to Pages 101–103

This conceptualization of the “politically” disappeared subject, however, excludes the estimated 8,350 indigenous people (Comisão Nacional de Verdade Relatório 2014, Texto 5, 2) murdered by government forces during the dictatorship, who largely remain anonymous—­disappeared for political reasons and yet not counting as “disappeared.” While there has been some recent work on the experiences of indigenous populations during the dictatorship (e.g., Valente 2017), the experiences of indigenous peoples during dictatorship and democracy have not yet been incorporated into the discourse of resistance and citizenship presented at the MDR. This is emblematic of the limits of the notion of nunca mais to connect the concepts and practices of memory, human rights, and resistance in the present.

Chapter 3 1. Much work has been done analyzing the transformation of this prison into a shopping mall as both the material and symbolic implementation of the social and economic transition installed by the military dictatorship in Uruguay. See, for example, Achugar (2004, 2009), Draper (2011, 2012), and Lessa (2011). 2. The VER  .  .  . DAD square is left over from a temporary exhibit of the same name installed at MUME in 2010 by Daniel Jorysz. See Draper (2011) for a detailed analysis of this exhibit. 3. The analysis of both the permanent and temporary exhibits at MUME presented in this chapter is based on my personal examination of the site in 2013 and archival research of brochures and exhibit pamphlets conducted at the MUME archives at the same time. 4. “Crear un espacio de la ciudad de Montevideo para la promoción de los Derechos Humanos y Civiles, y la Memoria de la lucha por la Libertadad, la Democracia y la Justicia Social, entendiéndolos como conceptos culturales, inacabados y en permanente construcción” (MUME, “Informe general 2005–­2010,” report submitted to the City of Montevideo, http:​ //mume​.montevideo​.gub​.uy​/sites​/mume​.montevideo​.gub​.uy​/files​/articulos​/ descargas​/informe​_general​_mume​_2005​-2010​.pdf). 5. “Responde a la necesidad urgente de simbolizar contundentemente la historia del golpe de Estado en el país, para que nunca más se vuelva a repetir” (MUME, “Fundamentación y marco conceptual,” 2006 proposal to the City of Montevideo, http:​//mume​.montevideo​.gub​.uy​/sites​/mume​ .montevideo​.gub​.uy​/files​/articulos​/descargas​/documento​_general​_de​_fundamentacion​_y​_marco​_conceptual​.pdf).

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6. “Para que nunca más vuelvan a ocurrir” (Ferrario 2007, available at the MUME archives). 7. “Pensamos firmemente que nada justifica los crímenes de los nazis, ni el holocausto atómico de Hiroshima y Nagasaki, ni el crimen de avasallar la democracia imponiendo la tortura sistemática, la desaparición forzada y la cárcel para miles de compatriotas” (ibid.). 8. “Sufrieron, resistieron y lucharon contra la dictadura por la democracia, la libertad y la justicia social” (ibid.). 9. Ibid. 10. “Los presos de la dictadura, los desaparecidos, los exiliados, los clandestinos, no fueron inocentes; fueron todos culpables de luchar contra la implantación de la dictadura” (ibid.). 11. “Por definición, los que violan los DDHH son los Estados. Nuestro Estado los violó y aplicó sistemáticamente el terrorismo de Estado. Por esta razón debe reparar a la sociedad en general y a las víctimas en particular” (ibid.). 12. Ibid. 13. “Toda la acción del Museo de la Memoria estará orientada a combatir la mentalidad que dio lugar a la implantación de la dictadura en nuestro país en el pasado reciente, para que nunca más origine los hechos y las realidades pavorosas que tuvimos que vivir, para que nuestros hijos y los hijos de nuestros hijos nunca más tengan que sufrir el terrorismo de Estado y la violación de los derechos humanos” (ibid.). 14. “La defensa de los derechos humanos, por la justicia y contra la opresión, la desigualdad, la discriminación y la explotación” (MUME, “Fundamentación y marco conceptual”). 15. This time period is largely considered to be one of social, economic, and political crisis that led to the rise of activists and political movements acting against the state and the eventual authoritarian response of the “civic-​military” government. For a detailed review of this period, see Marchesi and Yaffé (2010). 16. “Actividades políticas de tendencias marxistas-​leninistas.” Quotes in this section are based on my visit to MUME in 2013. 17. As seen in the MDR, the narrative of heroic resistance presented at the MUME echoes the larger discourse of postdictatorial memory articulated by leftist organizations that unifies the divergent actions and goals of different parties and groups into a narrative of resistance against the dictatorship in the name of democracy. For a detailed examination of the larger narrative turn by the Uruguayan Left, see Yaffé (2004).

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18. This parallels the similar displacement of Manoel Fiel Filho in the MDR exhibit that I discuss in chapter 2. 19. In this sense, Arce was transformed into a symbol for the student movement in Uruguay much like Edson Luis Lima Souto in Brazil. For an in-​depth study of Arce and the student movement both during and after the dictatorship, see Sempol (2006). 20. For a detailed analysis of the MLN-​T see Aldrighi (2001), Cultelli (2006), Blixen (2000, 2007), Fernández Huidobro (1998b), Marchesi (2014), Yaffé (2004), and Churchill (2014), among others. 21. As Aldo Marchesi notes, in this initial phase of the late 1960s the Tupamaros “carried out relatively successful operations with a degree of ingenuity and imagination, taking care to avoid bloodshed. These served to increase popular sympathies, enhance the MLN-​T’s international reputation and . . . provoke the anxiety of the authorities” (2014, 550). For more on this “robin hood” period of the MLN-​T, the turn to the use of violence by some members within the logic of war in 1969, and the effects this had on popular perceptions of the organization, see Aldrighi (2001). 22. As Ana Ros explains, citing Uruguayan historian Eugenia Allier Montaño’s interviews with former Tupamaros, some MLN-​T leaders viewed torture as “an integral part of the war between the MLN-​T and the armed forces. . . . This way of thinking explains the absence of victims’ organizations and public denunciation of torture in the immediate aftermath of the regime; the Tupamaros leadership discouraged both” (Ros 2012, 163). For more on the split within the MLN-​T leadership regarding armed violence and the logic of war, see Aldrighi (2001). 23. “El MLN asesinó a cuatro personas acusadas de pertenecer al ‘escuadrón de muerte.’” 24. The details of Barrett’s murder appear in CEMDP (2007), as well as in Merlino and Ojeda (2010). The murder of Barrett and other members of the guerrilha group VPR is known as “the Massacre at São Bento Farm [O massacre da chácara São Bento]” and is described in detail by Elio Gaspari in A ditadura escancarada. Barrett is also the subject of a fictional novel by Urariano Mota entitled Soledad no Recife (2009). 25. “Un sistema planificado de extrema vigilancia y represión, concebido para ‘disciplinar’ al conjunto de la sociedad.” 26. While it is not my intent to provide a historical overview of the systematic repression of the population during the dictatorship, detailed discussion of the military dictatorship and memory politics in Uruguay can be found in the essay collections Marchesi et al. (2004) and Demasi et al. (2009).

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27. Banging pots and pans and turning off all lights as forms of social protest. 28. The law (Ley de Caducidad de la Pretensión Punitiva del Estado) has been upheld has recently as 2009. In 2011 a new law was passed by congress as a work-​around, allowing military personnel and those accused of participating in “death squads” to be placed on trial for crímenes de lesa humanidad. But in 2013, the Supreme Court found many parts of the law to be unconstitutional, once again providing impunity to those military personnel and paramilitary groups who killed and tortured during the dictatorship. While there have been some official investigations through the Office of the President, military records are largely classified or missing with regards to the time period. For an in-​ depth discussion of the attempts to overturn the Ley de Caducidad, see Allier Montaño (2010), Marchesi (2013), Lessa (2012, 2013), and Fried Amilivia (2016). 29. “Miedo en toda la sociedad.” 30. “A pesar de las durísimas condiciones carcelarias, quienes fueron recluidos en estos establecimientos desarrollaron múltiples formas de resistencia que fueron clave para la continuidad de la vida y el mantenimiento de su integridad física y emocional.” 31. “Pensar los límites y posibilidades de la museificación de la memoria  .  .  . ¿Dónde comienza y dónde termina esa recuperación de una memoria-​otra? ¿Desde dónde podemos tematizarla?” (Draper 2011, 194). 32. “Política penitenciaria con la cual contribuyó la dictadura, al naturalizar modos de hacer una criminalización de la pobreza (otro modo de impunidad)” (ibid.). 33. “Un verdadero frente de oposición y denuncia de la dictadura uruguaya.” 34. For an excellent theoretical discussion of the phantasmal effect of a photograph, which produces an effect-​of-​presence by being the representation of a moment in the past observed from the present, and how the aesthetic use of objects pertaining to the disappeared and associated with classification by the state, such as photo ID cards and written documentation of their detention, continually resignifies memory according to multiple interpretations, see Richard (2000). 35. See Demasi and Yaffé (2005) for an in-​ depth discussion of the Madres y Familiares group. 36. Rico (2007). 37. “Una pluralidad de voces”; “la historia es un monolito” (Paisito pamphlet).

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Notes to Pages 117–126

38. “Mantener, cuidar y volver a inventar colectivamente nuestra memoria” (ibid.). 39. “Plantear la función de la memoria y su relación con la justicia (o la injusticia) legal hoy en día en nuestro país. Volver a conectar este tema con el presente y romper con la retórica de una construcción de memoria-​ monolito, moralista, congelada y estéril para elaborar críticamente el presente” (Giullia Cilla, “MUME Montevideo (Febr. 2012),” Paisitos (blog), https:​//paisitos​.wordpress​.com​/otros​-proyectos​/mume​-montevideo​-02​-12​/. 40. Those political prisoners considered rehenes (hostages) primarily included the leaders of the MLN-​T, whom the government confined in multiple prisons for more than a decade. These included MLN-​T founder Raúl Sendic, former Uruguayan president José Mujica, former senator Eleuterio Fernández Huidobro, and novelist Mauricio Rosencoff, among others. See Aldrighi (2001) and Blixen (2000) for more information. 41. “En reclamo de libertad, elecciones sin proscripciones y amnistía para los presos políticos.” 42. For more on the so-​called Pacto del Club Naval, see Allier Montaño (2001, 2010) and Markarian (2005). 43. “Cerraba un período y simultáneamente inauguraba una etapa de transición con grandes temas pendientes, entre los cuales se destacaban la difícil situación económica y las denuncias sobre las violaciones a los derechos humanos durante la dictadura.” 44. The images were compiled by Margarita Chao Fernández in collaboration with Radioactiva FM. 45. Lessa notes that the 1989 referendum “constitutes the only example of a society deciding through the ballot box that its security forces should not be rendered accountable for human rights crimes” (2011, 198). Ana Ros also points out that the failed elimination of the law in 2009 was paradoxically on the same ballot that elected former Tupamaro and torture victim José Mujica as president of Uruguay (Ros 2012, 173). 46. For more information on the Marcha de Silencio, see Demasi and Yaffé (2005), Ros (2012, 167–­68), Marchesi (2002), and Lessa (2011, 198–­201). 47. Rancière 2010, 137. 48. The original installation of these images was accompanied by a brief introductory text written by Pagliano explaining her experiences during the dictatorship, including the torture of her sister and burning “leftist” books with her father out of fear that the military would find them. 49. “La memoria familiar, en simultaneidad tensa y intensa, con la memoria colectiva” (Filigranas installation, 2011).

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50. “Desconcierto de no saber dónde estaban”; “el miedo a la muerte, la tristeza, la desesperación”; “a veces, me gustaría poder olvidar” (Reparación installation 2010). 51. “Hoy tan lleno de ayer/tan tan ayer”; “mamá, papá, hermanos” (ibid.). 52. “Da vuelta el cajón, el corazón/los sentidos, sentido, sentido/zumbido/zum zum zum/vacío/acá tá! no tá! acá tá! no tá . . . !” (ibid.). 53. Ibid. 54. Ibid. 55. Ros 2012, 179. 56. The original drawings used by Solari in the piece were produced by the visual artist in different series: Espacios (1997–­2000), Recuerdos (1998), and Guerra (1999). See http:​//www​.solari​.de. 57. The video installation can be viewed at http:​//josepilone​.com​/galerias​/el​-limite​/. 58. The case of Ibero Gutiérrez is an important example of this. See MUME et al. (2009). 59. Rancière 2010, 151. 60. “Homo politicus versus homo aestheticus, la relación tensa o no, complaciente o no, implica no solo la voluntad orignal del ser humano sino también el ojo de quien lee o el oído de quien escucha” (MUME et al. 2009, 3). 61. “Vida truncada por el escaudrón de la muerte que la sociedad vencerá con la luz del amor al arte y la política para decirle nunca más” (ibid., 16). 62. “El arte y la política interactuaban, se unían, se contestaban, sin perder su cualidad particular” (ibid., 59). 63. “Arte revolucionario.  .  .  . Las claves de su creación no sólo no respetan los límites entre categorías artísticas sino de esferas de acción política: cultura y militancia” (ibid., 87). 64. While I focus on a few pieces here, the collection includes many paintings, drawings, and mixed-​media collages; private diaries from his teen years; pieces of art and writing from his brief stints at Miguelete and Punta Carretas, where he met MLN-​T members and developed the so-​ called boniato aesthetic approach to art and writing. See Camnitzer (2007) for more on the notion of “prison aesthetics” in Uruguay and beyond. The collection also includes draft manuscripts of Gutiérrez’s best-​known poetry, including fragments of the manuscript of his most famous poem, Impronta. For more information on Gutiérrez’s poetic production, see Oreggioni and Bravo (2009). 65. “La situación de esa época permite vincular las acciones artísticas y políticas” (MUME et al. 2009, 82).

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Notes to Pages 139–142

66. “La obra de Ibero artista/guerrillero, es un monumento vivo de la memoria, sus muchas facetas de la cre/acción son puente entre generaciones acerca de temáticas que no merecen ser sepultadas. Hacerla pública nos va a permitir retomar diálogos saludables, que generen una participación en que no quedemos como meros espectadores sino receptores/ creativos como resistencia al olvido desde un presente y hacia un futuro” (ibid., 88). 67. Ferrario (2007). 68. Ana Ros makes a similar observation, noting that MUME “focuses on the dictatorial repression and does not address the political violence of the urban guerrilla” (2012, 173).

Chapter 4 1. The ESMA site was declared a National Historical Monument in 2008, a pragmatic maneuver that would make it more difficult for future governments to dismantle the work done over the past decade to transform the former detention and torture center into a cultural space dedicated to memory and human rights. 2. “Memoria en construcción es un proceso, un tránsito colectivo, una discusión en curso. Mientras continúa la lucha sin pausa por la justicia y la verdad, la construcción de la Memoria colectiva sigue su camino de subjetividades superpuestas” (Brodsky 2005, 45, his emphasis). 3. Jens Andermann has recently made a similar assertion, arguing that the “site has become at once a memorial (a lieu de mémoire) and an experimental space for working through the aporias of commemorating the victims of the past while also re-​activating their legacy of struggle for a politics in and of the present” (Andermann 2012, 77). 4. “Contribuir al recuerdo permanente de esta etapa trágica de la historia argentina como ejercicio colectivo de la memoria, con el fin de enseñar a las actuales y futuras generaciones las consecuencias irreparables que trae aparejada la sustitución del Estado de Derecho por la aplicación de la violencia por quienes ejercen el poder del Estado. Asimismo, deberá transmitir que el compromiso con la vida y el respeto irrestricto de los derechos humanos deben ser valores fundantes de una sociedad justa y solidaria” (Espacio Memoria Mission Statement). 5. Descriptions of the Espacio Memoria and analysis of the installations in the space are primarily based on my personal research at the former ESMA complex in 2012 and 2013.

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6. “El valor de los derechos humanos vulnerados durante la etapa del Terrorismo de Estado, sus consecuencias y la reafirmación de nunca más” (IEM panel at entrance to Cuatro Columnas Building, 2012). 7. “Confluyen así en un mismo predio el cuidado de sitios de alto valor simbólico, la gestión de documentos y archivos, el debate académico y político, las investigaciones y publicaciones, la promoción de políticas públicas de derechos humanos y la potenciación de diferentes expresiones culturales” (EMPDDHH Visitor Brochure, 2013). 8. See for example Andermann (2012b), Bell (2014), Bishop (2014), Colombo (2012), Draper (2011, 2012), Vezzetti (2009), among others. 9. “No cabe duda que en este debate vuelven a atarse las lianas del arte y la política. . . . Según cómo las atemos, se responderá al enigma de la Esma. . . . Una historicidad que arrastre su antípoda, su vacío pendiente y visible. . . . Y también que muestre una intercalación de lo visible y lo invisible y una reinvención pedagógica” (González 2005, 77). 10. While these comments are based on my own experience on the tour in 2012 and 2013, they parallel Susana Draper’s suggestion that the nonscripted tours accentuate the “complex and open character” of the EMPDDHH “and visitors find themselves confronted with the very incompleteness that characterizes these ruinous spaces” (Draper 2011, 143). However, I also concur with Vikki Bell’s criticism of the general tone of depoliticized humanitarianism on the tour, where “some fundamental lines of enquiry into the nature of political fear and the deployment of violence” are not explored, leaving their “complexities consequently foreclosed and unaired” (2014, 76). 11. Clark and Payne 2011, 99. For an in-​depth discussion of the notion of trauma tourism in Latin America and the paradoxes of sites of memory such as the former ESMA that “raise awareness of the traumatic past but risk commercializing, trivializing, or depoliticizing that past through tourism” (ibid.), see Clark and Payne (2011) and Clark (2009). 12. Andermann 2012b, 92. 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid. 16. Draper 2012, 160. 17. For excellent analyses of Ferrari’s critical engagement with aesthetics and politics, especially related to the dictatorship and its effects, see Bell (2014, ch. 3) and Canclini (2010, ch. 5). 18. Close proximity to city streets and neighborhoods was a characteristic of many clandestine torture centers in Buenos Aires, such as Olimpo,

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Notes to Pages 145–149

Automotores Orletti, and Club Atlético. The lack of public outcry from residents near the centers who were able to observe and hear the activities in these spaces was largely due to a fear of being detained and tortured. 19. “To see without being able to do disempowers completely. But seeing without the possibility of admitting that one is seeing turns the violence on oneself. Percepticide blinds, maims, kills through the senses” (Taylor 1997, 123–­23). 20. Espacio Memoria, Carta abierta exhibit. I am using the English translation provided by the Archivo Nacional de la Memoria and the Ministro de Justicia y Derechos Humanos, Open Letter from a Writer to the Military Junta, trans. Dirección de Traducciones, Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto, Buenos Aires, http:​//www​.jus​.gob​.ar​/media​/2940455​/ carta​_rw​_ingles​-espa​_ol​_web​.pdf. 21. Ibid. 22. Again, this is partly due to successes in the juridical realm that have allowed social discourse related to dictatorship to move beyond the denunciatory testimonial mode that still dominates in Uruguay and Brazil, where military personnel largely maintain impunity for human rights violations committed during dictatorship. 23. The courtyard has been symbolically renamed the Declaration of Human Rights Plaza (Plaza Declaración de los Derechos Humanos). 24. Lorenzano 2009, 251. 25. “Anomalía excepcional y totalmente desviada del curso ‘normal’ de nuestra idílica ‘historia patria.’ ”All citations of the IEM exhibit in this section are based on my visit to and documentation of the exhibit as presented in the Cuatro Columnas building in 2012. 26. “El ‘otro’ originario desaparecía en el plano discursivo como preludio a su impune exterminio en el terreno práctico: la idea era que aquello era un desierto, ahogado en sus potencialidades de desarrollo por la presencia de poblaciones a las cuales se les negaba su condición humana y se los asimilaba a animales salvajes.” 27. In this sense, the exhibit offers a counternarrative to the celebratory version of these events offered by the Argentine state, a national myth of “historical progress at the same time as it introduced a new idea of state power as a nomadic force imposing itself on flows of capital” (Andermann 2007, 184). As Andermann argues, this myth was visually propagated via the distribution and exhibition of photographs that reflected “the military narrative of crossing and occupying a ‘desert’ already ‘cleansed’ of native inhabitants . . . the disavowal of violence and the suggestion of vast, empty spaces in large panoramic shots of soldiers posing in the half-​distance

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between the lens and the horizon. In the few images where Indians appear at all, they do so as already exposed to the State’s sovereign decision” (ibid., 187). For more critique on the visual representation of the Argentine military’s genocidal campaign against the indigenous population, see Andermann 2007, especially chapters 5 and 6. 28. “La construcción del imaginario social respecto del indio como enemigo que atenta contra la propiedad privada y actúa en contra de la nacionalidad.” 29. “La llamada ‘Conquista del Desierto’ fue una operación en gran escala de Terrorismo de Estado . . . es pródiga en atrocidades de todo tipo, precursores de las que luego se aplicarían metódicamente bajo la última Dictadura Militar.” 30. “Las derivaciones sediciosas que obreros, más o menos auténticos, quieren dar derecho a huelga”; “que nos son extraños, inclinados a la subversión y a la violencia.” 31. “Medio siglo después: antes de la matanza se procedía a la tortura de las víctimas y al robo de sus pertenencias.” 32. “La heroica resistencia de madres y familiares de desaparecidos y de los organismos de derechos humanos a la dictadura.” 33. “A una joven generación y de otros exponentes de una lucha por una sociedad distinta.” 34. Basterra’s “fotos sacadas” were included in Marcelo Brodsky’s Memoria en construcción (2005) cited earlier, which held personal importance for the photographer because they include images of his brother, Fernando, who was tortured and disappeared via the ESMA. For a detailed analysis of these photos and their insertion into local and global networks of memory and human rights discourse, see Andermann (2012b), Feld (2012), and Bell (2014). Also of note, the display that accompanied the IEM exhibit in 2012 was also installed at MUME in Montevideo in 2013 as a temporary exhibit, highlighting the transnational collaboration between these centers dedicated to memory and human rights in the region. 35. “El concepto de modernización sería utilizado por la conducción autoritaria para justificar todos los cambios políticos, económicos, sociales y culturales que se llevesen a cabo en su gestión violando, fundamentalmente, los derechos humanos de un sector de la población.” 36. “El resultado de las dictaduras que asolaron la región en esos años dejó además de un saldo siniestro de terror y muerte, la exclusión de millones de personas del acceso a los más elementales derechos humanos, como el derecho al trabajo, a la salud, a la educación.” 37. Rancière 2004b, 309.

228

Notes to Pages 152–158

38. “Estas violaciones de los derechos humanos encontraron siempre teorías y ideologías que las justificaban ante los ojos de los perpetradores”; “ni bien hacen su aparencia en la escena pública.” 39. “Forma de hacer política basada en una lógica binaria y excluyente” (Calveiro 2007, 59). 40. “El juego de poder y la lógica impositiva propia del Estado, no de las resistencias” (ibid., 60). 41. “El rechazo de relatos míticos en torno de la víctima inocente o del héroe combatiente puede facilitar el pasaje de una memoria responsable” (ibid., 61). 42. “Lograr una verdadera democracia sobre la base de la justicia, la igualdad y la dignidad para todas y todos.” 43. “Se los llevaron llenos de vida / y con la vida los hacemos presentes” (Presencias exhibit 2012). 44. “Lo que pudo haber sido, lo que vuelve en sueños, de ningún lado, de mí”; “Cosas que pudieron ser, pero solo en sueños, de todos lados, de nosotros, como sombras sin figuras” (ibid.). 45. “Un paseo a la plaza / educar a tu hijo / salir de vacaciones / reírse de nada” (ibid.). 46. “Escribir algo / y que no lo quemen, / tener un hijo / y que no lo roben” (ibid.). 47. “Aprender a vivir, / tener tiempo de morir, / mirar hacia atrás, / festejar aciertos, / remendar errores” (ibid.). 48. “Volver a equivocarse / una y otra y otra vez” (ibid.). 49. This siluetazo at the former ESMA sought to replace a previous installation in 2004 that was destroyed and echoes the original siluetazo installed in the Plaza de Mayo and its immediate surroundings in 1983. For a detailed examination of this original installation, see Longoni and Bruzzone (2008). 50. As Vikki Bell notes, artists and activists in Argentina such as the Grupo de Arte Callejero are “making precisely the link between the category ‘the disappeared’ and present state rationalities and its violence” focusing on “the routinely ignored violence of the police; using similar methods of graphic painting walls and pavements, and gathering in solidarity, to mark out and protest” at sites associated with present-​day violence and disappearance carried out by the police (2014, 32). 51. Rancière 2010, 69. 52. Lorenzano 2009, 258. 53. Tandeciarz 2007, 162.

Notes to Pages 158–160

229

54. “La generación después de las víctimas y los victimarios, de los que se implicaron en esa historia y los que pudieron mantenerse indiferentes” (Conti Mission Statement). 55. “Con el desafío de contribuir a la resignificación de este predio al horror, se construyó  .  .  . un espacio de creación, reflexión y difusión de la cultura de la memoria y los derechos humanos. Transformar este lugar emblemático de privación, exclusión y muerte en un espacio de vida abierto a la comunidad es el mayor compromiso y desafío para contribuir a la construcción de memoria, verdad y justicia” (introduction posted at entrance to the Conti building, 2013). 56. “Aquellas obras cuyas estrategias apelan a una experiencia estética activa brindan un ámbito propicio para socavar certidumbres e inaugurar nuevos espacios de reflexión.” (Battiti, 2004, 103). In this essay, Battiti echoes González’s argument in favor of including aesthetic engagement with and within the former ESMA, as it can allow us to “take the habit out of memory [deshabituar la memoria]” (ibid., 102) and open up “the possiblity to critically reflect upon State Terrorism and the scars that remain in our society today [la posibilidad de reflexionar críticamente sobre el terrorismo de Estado y las marcas que aún hoy perduran en nuestra sociedad]” (ibid., 103). 57. “Lo único que permite la continuidad de la memoria es la realidad irreal, perfectamente imperfecta y acabadamente inacabada del arte” (González 2007, 31). 58. “El arte del ‘nunca más’ tropieza justamente con el carácter no directivo y orientador del arte. Si quiere serlo realmente, debe dejar de adiestrar o instruir; pero si anula de su voluntad el carácter de guía y encauzador, puede fracasar doblemente . . . Fracasa pues en su doble corazón estético y político” (ibid.). 59. “Las fotos—­complejas huellas de lo real—­muestran a su vez huellas lingüísticas y, como tales, se presentan incompletas aunque desbordantes de sentido” (Fortuny 2014, 26). 60. “Me paralizo en este grito, me quedo en ese tiempo, en ese lugar . . . aunque la vida continúe y nos hayan liberado a algunos, del ‘pozo’ nunca se sale” (El lamento de los muros installation, 2012). 61. “A mí me costó mucho volver a recibir una caricia, sentirla como caricia y no como manoseo” (ibid.). 62. “Con ella fue diferente, ella tenía un físico muy espectacular y los guardias venían y la violaban sin torturarla. Es diferente la sensación de rechazo y de angustia que te produce que estén violando a alguien al lado

230

Notes to Pages 161–169

tuyo que el otro tipo de tortura . . . esa situación te generaba un rechazo y una angustia mucho mayor” (ibid.). 63. “Voy al baño y dejo la puerta abierta”; “sensación de ahogo y de la violación” (ibid.). 64. “Toda violación implica mucha culpa también y aparte mucha vergüenza . . . hay muchas cosas que no se dicen, que no nos animamos a decir, este mundo privado que escondemos, que no lo largamos” (ibid.). 65. “Los bordes de tumulto y discordia del sentido irreconciliado, sabiendo desde ya que ninguna forma coincide plácidamente consigo misma” (Richard 2007, 106). 66. Bell 2014, 33. 67. Bell 2014, 32. Bell’s approach to the study of the connection between the past and the present at the former ESMA is largely articulated through the notion of the biopolitical as developed by Foucault and expanded by Agamben. While she recognizes the flaws related to subjective depoliticization in Agamben’s biopolitical project, Bell also suggests that biopolitics still allows us to “pursue an ethical reflection on the present, one that attends also to the production of political life and its caesuras ‘in the now’ . . . the senses in which the ‘secured’ biopolitical life of the people, constituted through their relationship with the sovereign, entails exclusions and constitutes vulnerabilities” (33, her emphasis). The key here is what kind of ethical reflection is performed; what happens when the exclusions and vulnerabilities are made visible? Are these rightless subjects to be saved and incorporated into the hegemonic discourse of neoliberal humanitarianism? Or do they appear as acts of political subjectivation that disrupt the ethical demand of a victimized other and the consensual framework of sovereignty in postdictatorial democracy? 68. A video of this installation can be seen on the YouTube channel for the Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti: https:​//www​.youtube​ .com​/watch?v=bnHi9CQAxoQ. 69. “Para fomentar nuevas capacidades expresivas, comunicacionales y técnicas en niños y jóvenes en situación de vulnerabilidad, a través de la realización de talleres y actividades destinadas a favorecer la integración social y la socialización de la experiencia artística” (Fundación ph15 Mission Statement, ph15.org.ar). 70. Rancière 2010, 140. 71. Ibid., 141. 72. Ibid. 73. The seven photographers that make up the Sub collective are Gisela Volá, Nicolás Pousthomis, Gabriela Mitidieri, Gerónimo Molina, Martín Barzilai, Verónica Borsani, and Olmo Calvo Rodríguez.

Notes to Pages 170–182

231

74. This series of images is referred to as both Hospital Borda and Los malditos by Sub. In my analysis, I use Hospital Borda, as the series is named in the exhibit at the Conti. 75. Many images from these series and other work by Sub can be found at www.sub.coop. 76. Gordillo 2014, 83. 77. In the texts accompanying the images, Claudia explains that she wants to leave the neighborhood but is unable to for financial reasons. The images of Claudia and her children presented in the series are also striking given that they are Afro-​Argentine, a largely invisible community in a nation that has engaged in both symbolic and material social whitening throughout its history. 78. Rancière 2010, 141. 79. Paco is a drug consisting of the resin/residue of cocaine that is smoked. It is fairly cheap, highly addictive, and prominent in poorer communities such as Villa 21-​24. 80. Rosenberg 2016, 170. 81. Eltit and Errázuriz (1994). 82. “Entre la locura y la cordura existe una delgada frontera que nos interroga y nos atraviesa a todos” (Hospital Board/Los malditos photography series). 83. Here, I am borrowing from Gareth Williams’s notion of “negative community” that I discuss in the introduction. Echoing Williams’s examination of the portrayal of the patients at the Putaendo mental hospital by Eltit and Errázuriz in El infarto del alma (Williams 2002, ch. 7), I also read Hospital Borda as an exposure of the “other side” of an ethical community of neoliberal humanitarianism, “a notion of the social that is grounded no longer in constituted intimacy, in closure, in communion, or in the promise of a completed collective identity of all in one” but rather “a notion of commonality that is grounded in intimacy’s and communion’s dispersed and scattered interruptions, fissures, fragments, and residues” (Williams 2002, 301). 84. Hesford 2011, 8. 85. Rancière 2010, 67. Rancière rearticulates Arendt’s paradox regarding the subjects of human rights as the “rights of the rightless” (i.e., those without citizenship) by reinserting a notion of the political and the equality of speaking beings: “The Rights of Man are the rights of those who have not the rights that they have and have the rights that they have not” (ibid.). 86. Rosenberg 2016, 12. 87. Ibid., 146.

232

Notes to Pages 183–193

88. Ibid., 156. Rosenberg offers an intriguing discussion of subject formation and a critique of children as the subjects of rights discourse within the consensus of neoliberal humanitarianism via a reading of the representation of street children in the Brazilian film Ônibus 174 (dir. José Padilha) in chapter 6 of After Human Rights. 89. Hesford 2011, 153–­54. 90. Ibid., 155–­56. 91. Ibid., 27.

Conclusion 1. I was able to access and photograph the site in 2012. As of this writing, the Paseo de los Derechos Humanos remains closed to the public. 2. This includes the installation of playground equipment for children, the focus on leisure and exercise spaces, and so on. While this indeed could be read as making the public space accessible and enjoyable for residents of this area, there is also a notion of whitewashing the past through urban renewal. 3. “ ‘Desaparecidos’ políticos, gremiales, estudiantes, sociales  .  .  . víctimas del terrorismo del estado de la década de los setenta” (Paseo installation, 2012). 4. “A las compañeras y compañeros caídos, asesinados y/o víctimas del terrorismo de Estado durante el ciclo 1974–­1983” (La hoja sculpture, 2012). 5. Martín-​Cabrera 2011, 20. Martín-​Cabrera notes that his conceptualization of nonplace “is in every respect the opposite of the eponymous concept coined by French anthropologist Marc Augé,” which focuses on “those hypermodern spaces (airports, malls, highways, and so on) that abolish history and the coordinates of space and time” through “the acceleration of capital” (ibid.). 6. Ibid. Martín-​ Cabrera develops these ideas in dialogue with Brett Levinson’s notion of “radical injustice” to describe the impossibility of justice for the disappeared in postdictatorship, who “confront a situation for which no . . . laws and no justice beyond the law . . . exist. The subject of radical injustice . . . comes into being not beyond or outside the politics of representation, but at its limit: precisely at the historical time and place of the absolute failure of convention” (Levinson 2001, 50). 7. Avelar 2009, 33, his emphasis. 8. Ibid., 35. 9. Ibid.

Notes to Pages 194–195 10. Rosenberg 2016, 199. 11. Bosteels 2012, 163. 12. Ibid. 13. Building upon Susana Draper’s use of the term. 14. Bosteels 2012, 164. 15. Ibid. 16. Rancière 2009, 43.

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Index

Page numbers in boldface refer to illustrations. Achugar, Hugo, 8–9, 135, 136, 199n25, 218n1 Acosta, Abraham, 198n12 activist, 15, 18, 29, 33, 40, 43, 47, 52, 58, 65, 82, 87, 100, 114, 140, 141, 157, 158, 190, 192, 193, 206n46, 219n15, 228n50 adolescents, 38, 64, 65, 128, 164, 165, 168, 169, 174, 206n36 aesthetics, 6, 16, 17, 128, 140, 174, 176, 184, 195, 203n85; boniato, 223n64; and politics, 7, 9, 19–26, 56, 60–61, 88–91, 100, 102, 122, 134–36, 138, 143, 156, 158, 164, 194 Afro-Brazilian, 41, 65, 71, 73, 99 Agamben, Giorgio, 18–19, 21, 42, 193, 230n67 Alfonso, Mariel, 168 Allier Montaño, Eugenia, 199n28, 220n22, 221n28, 232n42 amnesty and impunity laws, 11, 12, 40, 41, 47, 54, 111, 120, 123, 199n29, 207n47, 221n28 Amnesty International, 33, 114 Andermann, Jens, 16, 144, 224n3, 225n8, 225n12, 226n27, 227n34 Arce, Líber, 107, 108, 220n19 Archdiocese of São Paulo, 39, 44, 206n39, 206n41, 208n66, 208n75, 209n76, 209n86

archive, 64, 80–82, 84, 89, 100, 142, 143, 158, 218n3, 219n6 Arendt, Hannah, 18–19, 42, 211– 12n51, 231n85 Argentina, 3–5, 10–12, 15, 33–34, 37–39, 53–54, 59–60, 141–85, 187–91, 228n50 Arrúe, Nicolás (Presencias installation), 154–56 (155) art, 7, 9, 17, 19, 23–29, 55, 60–61, 191–95; at EMPDDHH, 143, 156, 159, 161, 167, 184, 216n63; at MDR, 63, 64, 66, 82, 87, 89–91, 100; at MUME, 102, 135–38 Asociación de Amigos del Paseo de los Derechos Humanos (AAPDDHH), 4–5, 198n5 Atencio, Rebecca, 16, 57, 200n33, 211n1, 212n10, 216n64, 217n67 authoritarian, 17, 37, 41, 58, 64, 73, 75, 82, 83, 151, 214n38, 219n15 Avelar, Idelber, 14–15, 30, 34–35, 69, 71, 192–93, 199n28, 205n16, 209n77 Badiou, Alain, 21–23 Barrett, Soledad, 109, 220n24 Basterra, Víctor, 150, 227n34 Batalha da Rua Antónia, 213n28 Battiti, Florencia, 159, 229n56

247

248 Bell, Vikki, 16, 162–63, 228n50, 230n67 Benjamin, Walter, 14, 121, 205 Bilbija, Ksenija, 16, 20, 52–53, 210n101 biopolitics, 18, 21, 23, 29, 230n67 Bolivia, 3, 60, 188–90 Boron, Atilio, 148 Bosteels, Bruno, 20, 22–23, 194, 202n80 Brazil, 7, 11, 12, 15, 33, 34, 39–41, 45–46, 48, 54, 63–100, 201, 213n20, 214n40, 217n79 Brodsky, Marcelo, 151–52, 188, 227n34 Bruno, Mauricio, 121–22 Buarque, Chico, 71–72 Caldeira, Teresa, 54, 64–65, 86 Calveiro, Pilar, 153, 205n21 Canclini, Néstor García, 25 Candeau, Alberto, 111, 120 capitalism, 28, 55–56, 137, 145, 149, 157, 170, 171, 180 Carandiru, 83, 84, 89, 90, 99, 191–92 Carcel Central Miguelete, 131, 132, 133, 134, 191–92 Carri, Albertina, 15, 210n36 cartoneros, 162, 163, 171, 176, 177 Casino de Oficiales (Sitio de Memoria), 143–44, 147, 152 Castañares, Juan Emilio Quispe, 3 catastrophe, 14, 19–20, 29, 35, 44, 55, 56, 61, 88, 100, 103, 121, 122, 130, 140, 157, 163, 171, 175, 182, 190, 195, 205n16 censorship, 10, 42, 72, 110, 155, 188 Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti (Conti), 158–85 Centro Cultural y Museo de la Memoria (MUME), 51, 52, 101–40, 149, 218n3

Index children, 11, 12, 15, 27, 49, 97, 126–28, 137–38, 152, 154–56, 164–67, 170–71, 174, 181–84, 232n88 Cilla, Giulia (Paisito. Tomo VI. installation), 116–17 citizenship, 4, 19, 42, 44, 45, 50, 51, 52, 58, 59, 188–90, 202n51, 231n85; at EMPDDHH, 148, 150, 179, 181–82, 184; at MDR, 65, 79, 83, 84, 87, 96; at MUME, 104, 110, 115 clandestine detention centers, 31, 60, 67, 118, 145, 153, 161, 189, 225n18 Clark, Laurie Beth, 144, 225n11 collage, 92, 133, 135, 137 Comissão Especial sobre Mortos e Desaparecidos Políticos (CEMDP), 67–68, 78, 220n24 Comissão Nacional de Verdade (CNV), 217n79 community, 55–57, 215n57; negative, 17, 179, 231n83 Conquista del desierto, 148–49, 226n27 Conteris, Hiber, 12 (counter)hegemony, 17, 22, 201n46 Crenzel, Emilio, 16, 33–34, 53, 59, 206n32 democracy, 21, 32, 40, 46, 64, 65, 194; at EMPDDHH, 145, 154, 157, 174, 179; at MDR, 79–81, 83–84, 87, 96, 97, 99; at MUME 102–04, 107, 110, 112, 135, 139; democratic transition, 10, 32–35, 37, 47–58, 74–77, 118, 199n28, 204n2 Departamento Estadual de Ordem Política e Social (DEOPS), 13, 40, 63, 66–67, 79–82, 85, 86, 87, 94, 98, 211n1

Index Direito à Memória e à Verdade: A ditadura no Brasil 1964–1985 (ADNB) installation, 66–78 Diretas Já, 69, 75–77 disagreement, 6–7, 69, 139, 198n14 disappeared, 4, 5, 7, 12, 34, 38, 42–43, 59, 67; 188, 190, 221n34, 232n6; at EMPDDHH, 143, 144, 150–56, 228n50; at MDR, 75, 77, 217n79; at MUME, 101, 104, 115–18, 121–22, 128 dissensus, 7, 18, 19, 24, 87, 89, 99, 102, 134, 156, 164, 180, 184, 185, 190, 192, 193, 216n63 dos demonios theory, 38, 139, 206n32 Draper, Susana, 9, 16, 26, 58–60, 112, 145, 218n2, 225n10, 233n13 Dunn, Christopher, 73, 213n30, 216n66 Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada (ESMA), 13, 141, 143, 144, 145, 147, 150, 152, 157, 158, 224n1, 225n11, 229n56 Espacio de Arte Contemporáneo, 191–92 Espacio/lugar/tiempo installation (Marta Pagliano), 122–25 (125), 222n48 Espacio para la memoria y la promoción de los derechos humanos (EMPDDHH), 7, 51, 151–85, 191 Estação Pinacoteca Museu de Arte Contemporâneo, 63, 64, 80, 89 ethical, the, 14, 21; humanitarianism, 9, 18–20, 23, 26–27, 28, 32–33, 37–43, 47, 52, 59; turn in critical theory, 9, 18–23, 26, 55, 59–60

249 ethical fusion of memory and human rights, 16, 26, 31, 35, 54–55, 79, 105, 140, 190, 193 Evaristo Arns, Paulo, 39, 45, 208n65, 215n44 evil, 151–52, 180 Ferrari, León, 145, 157, 225n17 Ferrario, Elbio, 103, 104, 112, 136 Fiel Filho, Manoel, 77, 78, 214n43 Filho, Daniel Aaron Reis, 33, 77 Filigranas installation (Angeles Martínez), 126–28 Fortuny, Natalia, 159 Foucault, Michel, 82, 84, 109, 111 Freire, Alípio, 89, 90, 91, 92–94 (93), 135 Fundacíon PH15 (Miradas desde lo oculto installation), 164–69, 184 Gabeira, Fernando, 11, 75 gender, 17, 18, 27, 73, 98, 207n56 genocide, 46, 47, 55, 149, 163, 204n1, 209n80 Gil, Gilberto, 72–73 golpe, 14, 20, 26, 35, 54, 83, 103, 104, 149, 205n16 Gonzaguinha, 68–69 González, Horacio, 143, 159 Gordillo, Gastón, 174 Grupo Tortura Nunca Mais, 206n46 Guevara, Ernesto ‘Che’, 136, 137, 214n35 Gutiérrez, Ibero, 108, 135–40, 223n58, 223n64 heroic, 5, 14, 26, 32, 34–35, 37, 44, 52–53, 66–78, 105–22, 150, 163, 219n17 Herzog, Vladimir, 77–78, 145 Hesford, Wendy, 18, 27, 182, 183

250 Hijos e Hijas por la Identidad y la Justicia contra el Olvido y el Silencio (H.I.J.O.S.), 12, 13, 143, 154, 189 Holocaust, 31, 36, 46, 47, 103, 104, 204n1, 209n80 Holston, James, 64–65 homonymy, 6, 198n14 Huidobro, Eleuterio Fernández, 11, 222n40 human rights: civil/political vs. economic/social, 4–5, 28, 33–37, 39, 41–43, 46–50, 58, 69, 70, 77, 84, 88, 99, 109, 112, 114, 115, 117, 139, 143, 150–54, 162, 168, 170, 180, 181, 185, 187, 190, 193, 194, 200n34, 206n46; and memory, see ethical fusion of memory and human rights; (non)subjects of, 4, 19, 32, 33, 35, 39, 40, 48, 49, 70, 79, 81, 83, 88, 104, 121, 138–39, 150, 154, 164, 168, 170, 189– 93, 231n85; religious discourse, 43–47, 208n65; spectacle 27; violations, 31, 35, 41, 44, 46, 47, 55, 65, 67, 69, 78, 79, 80, 88, 99, 104, 105, 114, 118, 139–40, 146, 150–53, 156, 157, 192, 193, 205n30, 226n22 Huyssen, Andreas, 8, 12, 46, 55–56, 69, 209n80 immigrant, 3, 60, 65, 70, 148, 149–50, 156, 157, 179, 181, 182, 189–90 impunity, 10, 11, 12, 41, 42, 47, 65, 112, 120, 121, 207n47, 221n28 indigenous, 41, 64, 65, 83, 99, 148–49, 157, 217n79 infrapolitical, 21 Instituto Espacio Memoria (IEM) Exhibit, 147–54, 226n25

Index Insurreições: expressões plásticas nos presídios políticos de São Paulo exhibit, 66, 89–100 (90) Jelin, Elizabeth, 8, 12, 13, 15, 128 Ježik, Enrique (Declaración formada por 37 esculturas installation), 163–64 justice: economic, 118, 193; juridical, 10–12, 16, 31–32, 46, 50, 67, 68, 105, 140, 150, 153, 193, 226n22; radical injustice, 232n6; social, 5, 19, 29, 51, 52, 80, 83, 102, 103, 104, 106, 136, 139, 193, 206; transitional, 16, 56 Langland, Victoria, 8, 70, 71, 212n18, 213n23, 216n66 Lembrar é resistir, 67, 79, 80 Lessa, Francesca, 222n45 Lesser, Jeffrey, 96 Lima Souto, Edson Luis, 70–1, 213n23 López, Silvia L., 198n12 Lorenzano, Sandra, 54, 58, 148, 157 Luttringer, Paula (El lamento de los muros), 159–62 (162) Luz neighborhood, 63–64, 66 Macri, Mauricio, 3, 190 Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, 5, 12, 13, 115, 117, 143, 150, 154, 189, 200n34 Madres de Uruguayos Desaparecidos en Argentina, 116 Madres y Familiares de los Detenidos Desaparecidos en Uruguay, 116 Marcha del Silencio, 121–22 Marchant, Patricio, 14 Marchesi, Aldo, 37, 219n15, 220n21

Index Marighella, Carlos, 75 Markarian, Vania, 32–33, 34, 37, 59, 103, 199n28 Martín-Cabrera, Luis, 34, 191, 232n5 Martínez, Angeles (Filigranas installation), 126–27 Martinez, Virginia (Las cárceles installation), 112–13 Martínez Barbosa, Gabriela Leyla (Reparación installation); 127–28 martyr, 34, 71, 77, 104, 107–09, 128, 135, 138, 139 marxist, 33, 37, 106 Maynard, Belén, 166 melancholic, 14, 105, 121, 140, 194 Memoria Abierta, 4–5 Memorial da Resistência (MDR), 51, 63–100, 191, 212n15, 217n67 memory: cultural, 13, 16, 26, 28, 57, 111, 143, 200n36; forgetting, 8, 10–12, 13, 31, 32, 60, 79, 102, 121, 139, 141, 188; and human rights, see ethical fusion of memory and human rights; intergenerational, 13–14, 117, 128, 134–35; marketable, 5, 20, 52–53, 57–59, 108, 145; museification of, 26, 66–67, 144–45; nonplace of, 191–92; postdictatorial, 5, 7–20, 53, 55, 58, 69; 84, 91, 108, 126, 128, 151, 153, 205n16, 219n17; postmemory, 200n36; sites/ memorials, 7–10, 16, 23–24, 28, 31, 51–52, 63–100, 101–40, 151–85 199n23, 224n3 Méndez, Juan E., 54–55 messianism, 22, 29, 44 Michelini, Zelmar, 114, 119 military dictatorship: Argentina, 4, 38, 51, 54, 143–44, 148, 149,

251 151, 155, 188; Brazil, 39, 40, 46, 51, 63, 76, 77, 81–83, 87, 90; Uruguay, 42, 106, 114, 117, 128, 220n26 Montaldo, Graciela, 198n12 Moreiras, Alberto, 14, 15, 21–23, 49, 55, 56 mourning, 14, 19, 20, 122 Movimento Sem Terra (MST), 83–84 Movimiento de Liberación NacionalTupamaros (MLN-T), 11, 106–8, 118, 139–40, 220n21, 220n22, 222n40 Moyn, Samuel, 36–37, 43, 58, 203n93, 208n65 Mujica, José, 112, 222n40 Música Popular Brasileira, 72–73, 216n66 mythic, 8, 43, 44, 69, 72, 73, 77, 153, 226n27 nazi, 47, 103, 109, 119, 163, 204n1 neoliberal, 15, 17, 18, 20, 27, 35, 37, 54, 55, 58, 144, 151, 163, 170, 171, 174, 180, 199n28, 232n88 never again (nunca más/nunca mais): at EMPDDHH, 142–44, 147, 151, 152, 154, 157, 159, 163–64, 168, 180, 184; at MDR; 64–66, 68, 69, 77–80, 88, 206n46, 217n79; at MUME, 102–05, 122, 134, 136–40; Brasil: Nunca mais, 32, 40–41, 44–46, 47–48; discourse of, 4, 7, 9, 16, 17, 20, 26–29, 31–32, 44, 47–60, 187, 191, 192–94, 204n1, 210n101; Informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas Nunca más (CONADEP), 32, 37–40, 43–44, 47, 206n36; and memory and human rights, see ethical

252 never again (nunca más/nunca mais), continued fusion of memory and human rights; nonsubjects of, 17, 27, 28, 39, 40, 42, 53–55, 99, 71, 102, 151, 156, 163, 164, 184, 189–90; Uruguay Nunca más (SERPAJ), 32, 41–43, 46–47, 48–50, 207n51, 208n58, 209n79, 209n90 Nixon, Richard, 137–38 nonheroic, 5, 9, 16, 17, 29, 39, 52–53, 55, 57, 88, 99, 100, 138–39, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194 nonplace of cultural memory, 191–93 nonvictim, 5, 9, 16–17, 29, 32, 39, 52–55, 57, 65, 79, 72, 78, 88, 99, 104, 119, 190, 192, 193, 194 nostalgic, 34, 52, 68–70, 72, 88, 98, 108, 110, 122, 135, 167 Pagliano, Marta (Espacio/Lugar/ Tiempo installation), 122–25 (124, 125), 222n48 paramilitary death squads, 101, 108, 121, 140, 153, 221n28 Parque da Juventude, 191–92 Parque Indoamericano, 3–5, 28, 156, 179–84, 187–92, 197n1, 197n2 Paseo de los Derechos Humanos, 4–5, 9, 28, 187–92, 232n1 Passeata dos 100 mil, 69, 72 Payne, Leigh A. 20, 52–53, 225n11 Penal Libertad, 111–12, 121, 126, 130–31, 134 Pilone, José (El límite installation), 128, 131–34, 192, 195, 223n57 Pinheiro, Paulo Sérgio, 64–65 piquetero, 157, 163

Index Platero, Alba, 136, 138–39 plebiscite, 41, 110, 119–20 politics: depoliticize, 14, 18, 33, 34, 38, 40, 41, 42, 58, 77, 147, 215n57, 225n10; nonpolitical subject, 21, 51, 64, 65, 68, 69, 86, 91, 112, 143, 150, 180; politicability, 59, 194, 233n13; political subjectivation, 7, 9, 17–20, 23, 24, 26, 28, 50, 52, 55, 59, 60, 66, 80, 99–100, 122, 128, 135, 138, 140, 158, 167, 173, 179, 191, 193–95, 202n80; relationship with aesthetics, see aesthetics postdictatorship: at EMPDDHH, 153, 154, 156, 173, 184; at MDR, 64, 75; at MUME, 102, 121, 122, 131, 134, 135, 140; culture, 5–9; 20, 29, 37, 50, 53, 56–61, 190; generation, 15, 16, 117, 128, 134; moments, 10–16 Potter, Phillip, 39–40, 45–46 prison: 42, 66, 80, 83, 94, 97, 101, 108, 111–12, 121, 129–34, 160, 191, 218n1; prisoner (common vs. political), 40–43; 54–55, 66–67, 80–86, 89–100, 104–06, 111–15, 118, 121, 144, 150, 152, 191–92, 222n40 Punta Carretas, 11, 101, 108, 111– 12, 121, 131, 192, 223n64 Puña, Rosemary Chura, 3 Rancière, Jacques, 6–7, 9, 17–20, 24–25, 60–61, 87, 88, 100, 134, 135, 137, 192, 198n12, 198n14, 201n51, 215n57, 216n63 rape, 170–71 Recalde, Arturo, 107 reconciliation, 10, 44, 46, 49 rehenes, 118, 222n40 Remedi, Gustavo, 52

Index resistance, 10, 16, 19, 32–35, 40–41, 51–52, 59, 193, 195, 213n22, 219n17; at EMPDDHH, 151– 85; at MDR 63–100, 217n79; at MUME, 101–40 Richard, Nelly, 14–15, 24–25, 44, 69, 161, 203n85, 205n16, 221n34 Ridenti, Marcelo, 34, 74, 75 Rocha, Ângela, 96–97 Ros, Ana, 15, 128, 201n45, 220n22, 222n45, 224n68 Rosenberg, Fernando J., 27, 57–58, 174, 183, 232n88 Rosencoff, Mauricio, 11, 12, 222n40 Rozitchner, León, 22, 23, 194 ruins, 14, 20, 54, 121, 167, 176, 187, 188, 201, 205n16 Sabato, Ernesto, 37, 47 Salgueiro, Bernardo, 3 Sarlo, Beatriz, 13, 200n36 Secretaria Especial dos Direitos Humanos da Presidência da República (SDH/PRA), 67–68 Servicio Paz y Justicia (SERPAJ), 41, 46, 49, 111 siluetazo, 157, 228n49 Silva, Luíz Inácio Lula da, 74, 214n32 Sipahi, Rita, 96–98 (97) Sister, Sérgio, 90–92, 94, 135 Slaughter, Joseph R., 5–6, 66–67 Solari, Héctor (Libertad installation), 128–31 (129), 195, 223n56 Sousa, Juan Ignacio, 169 state violence, 3, 4, 9, 11, 26, 27, 33, 34, 37, 57, 59, 195; Argentina, 38–39, 43–44, 48, 54, 148–54, 157, 188; Brazil, 40, 45, 48, 65, 69, 77, 79, 82,

253 83, 86, 87; Uruguay, 42, 50, 94, 96, 112, 113, 127, 134, 140 students, 5, 34, 38, 39, 40, 59, 65, 69–72, 75, 87, 102, 104, 106–10, 138, 188, 190, 206n46, 212n18, 213n23, 213n28, 216n66, 220n19 Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos] (Sujeto en la frontera installation), 169–84 (172, 175, 177, 180, 182, 183), 187, 195, 230n73, 231n74, 231n75 subaltern, 17, 21, 55, 69, 100, 154 subversives, 10, 38, 42, 53, 82, 83, 87, 106, 110, 113, 148, 152, 153 Süssekind, Flora, 73, 200n32 Takaoka, Carlos, 90, 94–96 (95) Tapajós, Renato, 11, 90 Taylor, Diana, 13, 71, 145, 226n19 testimony, 11–13, 84, 160–61, 226n22 Torres García, Joaquín, 136–37 torture centers, 7–8, 13, 15, 31, 60, 65, 80–88, 111–13, 143–45, 150, 161, 225n18, 227n34 trauma, 5, 11, 13–15, 19, 20, 26, 31, 48, 50, 54–56, 86, 127, 144, 158, 160, 209n80, 225n11 Tucci Carneiro, Maria Luiza, 67, 83 unions, 5, 34, 36, 38, 40, 73, 82, 104, 107, 110, 118, 150, 190; Diretório Central de Estudantes (DCE), 70; Federación de Estudiantes Universitarios (FEUU), 108; Plenario Intersidical de TrabajadoresConvención Nacional de Trabajadores (PTI-CNT), 120–22; metalúrgicos, 74; União Nacional de Estudantes (UNE), 70, 77, 212n18

254 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), 36, 37, 39, 42, 43, 47, 48, 151 Uruguay, 7, 9–12, 15, 31, 32–33, 37, 41–43, 46–47, 48–50, 51, 101–40, 219n17 Valero, Julio, 3 Vandré, Geraldo, 88, 116, 216n66 Vanucchi, Paulo, 78 Vargas, Getúlio, 63, 82, 83, 86 Veloso, Caetano, 72–72, 216n66 Vezetti, Hugo, 13–14 victims, 9, 10, 14, 22–23, 26, 32–35, 38–39, 42, 43, 46, 50–53, 55, 57, 59, 60, 64, 77, 78, 102, 104, 117, 138, 139, 142, 145, 153, 154, 156, 182–84, 205n21 Viglietti, Daniel, 106, 109, 116–17 Villa 15 (Hidden City [Ciudad Oculta]), 164–69

Index Villa 21-24 (Barracas), 173–78, 190, 230n73; Villa 21-24 (series by Sub[cooperativa de fotógrafos]), 173–78 villa-miseria, 38–39, 146, 171 Villalobos-Ruminott, Sergio, 16, 201n43, 203n85 violence. See state violene voto verde, 119–20, 207n47 Walsh, Rodolfo, 145–47, 151, 198 Williams, Gareth, 17, 201n46, 231n83 World Council of Churches, 39, 44, 45, 208n65 Yaffé, Jaime, 219n15, 221n35 Young, James E., 8, 199n23 Zaverucha, Jorge, 76, 199n28