What woman searches for her son for days and nights, as Doña Rosario Ibarra de Piedra did starting in 1973? Who sets up shop in a small, cell-like room, covering its walls with photos of the disappeared person, and as time goes by, with photos of others, living with them, looking at them at all hours? Who demands to see Secretary of the Interior Mario Moya Palencia, who keeps her in the waiting room for hours? Who takes any kind of transportation to reach the gate of Military Camp Number One and waits for hours on end to be let through, only to be yelled at to leave, that her son isn't there, even though she claims she was told a boy similar to hers was seen badly beaten, very badly beaten? Who remains for hours at the entrance to Los Pinos? Who goes to one march after another to denounce the infamy of the disappearance? Who travels to the United States to participate in human rights forums to which she hasn't been invited, and suddenly stands up, pushes her way through, and makes her voice heard as a bereaved mother? Who is this courageous mother of small stature who stands up to the power of the Mexican government and the Army and publicly cries out for her son to be brought to justice, if he did anything, but not to be disappeared?
One afternoon in 1977, in the house at 69 Pedregal Street, Rosario placed a family album on my knees: in the photographs, her child, a teenager, and soon-to-be adult, Jesús Piedra Ibarra, looked at us with confidence. Rosario explained: “When he was born, my husband, a doctor, and I bought our land and began building our house.”
Accused of belonging to the 23rd of September League, missing since April 18, 1975, Jesús Piedra Ibarra occupied every second, minute, hour, day, and night of Doña Rosario's life.
Before my eyes, Rosario revived her son with a twist of a page, with a twist of words, with the twist of the years it takes for a child who knows how to think and act to grow.
