A few weeks ago, the authorities of the Province of Río Negro together with those of the Municipality of the City of Bariloche decided to place a Mirage aircraft that participated in the Malvinas/Falklands War on the shore of our lake, facing the city. The airplane is part of a war memorial and is positioned as if it were flying toward the city center (although those who installed it claim it points toward the Malvinas/Falkland Islands). It is a warlike image that affects the beauty and harmony of Bariloche’s landscape. Each passing day, as we pass through the area, this militaristic presence evokes pain and unease—feelings that take us further away from healing from the absurdity of that war. The decision to install this plane in such an iconic place in our city was made unilaterally, without consulting the population.
Adding to this, the city of Bariloche was not at all involved in the war.
Therefore, this installation does not represent a genuine historical connection
with our community but rather serves the personal interests of those who use
the war as a way to justify themselves.
Without going into detail about the memorial that accompanies this
military image—which also describes the war in a way that incites hatred toward
the English and presents information that is at times biased or inaccurate—I
believe that these kinds of symbols do not help to heal the wounds of a
senseless war, nor do they strengthen our national identity. On the contrary,
they only serve to misinform visitors (most of whom were not witnesses to this
absurd and tragic conflict), generating hatred toward the English instead of
promoting acknowledgment of the mistake that was the war, and proposing more
constructive and humane ways of addressing and resolving this dispute.
This situation is what led me to write this essay about the Malvinas
(Bariloche, September 2025).
Malvinas
On March 30, General Leopoldo Fortunato Galtieri appeared on the balcony
of the Casa Rosada during a very intense day, when the Argentine people were
demonstrating against him and against the military government. That day became
the scene of a brutal police crackdown on a massive popular protest against the
dictatorship.
Two days later, on April 2, that same people took to the streets to cheer
the occupation of the Malvinas/Falklands. Galtieri, again on the same balcony,
was now being hailed as if he had suddenly become a national leader, even
daring to raise his arms in the style of Perón. Just hours before, he had been
despised; now he was celebrated, even as he uttered those disastrous words: “If
they want to come, let them come; we will give them battle.” Words the people
cheered.
As a boy, I had always been proud of my country and its national symbols.
They moved me deeply. I dreamed of being the flag bearer at school, something I
managed to achieve—both in primary and secondary school—through hard work and
effort.
Then came my time in compulsory military service, in my case in the
province of San Juan. Abuse from noncommissioned officers was commonplace,
along with lessons in deceit, intimidation, and the constant threat of
punishment—sometimes physical. The training was steeped in a warlike spirit:
the gaze always fixed on the “enemy,” who at that time was said to be the
Chileans. Always the same story, always war as an end in itself. All of this
gradually extinguished that natural love I had felt as a child for my country
and its symbols. Later, of course, I came to revalue those feelings and
understood that beyond all that were people, affection, and friendship—things
of a different nature, which sustain my deep love for my country.
The Malvinas/Falklands War found a nation blinded by a nationalist mantra
that had been instilled since my childhood: “The Malvinas are Argentine.” A
story repeated over and over, regardless of how events had actually unfolded
150 years earlier, in an Argentina mired in corruption, state violence, and
military dictatorship. At that time, there were no foundations for building a
serious, respectful, and organized nation, and the moral fabric of the state
had been violated. The country’s geography was in crisis, with countless
regions simply forgotten. And suddenly, the “great national cause” emerged
around a set of distant islands in the South Atlantic—an imagined land that
existed more in rhetoric than in the daily reality of the people. The Islands were
used as a new tool to garner popular support.
These were islands where Argentine citizens also lived, connected
harmoniously with the mainland. Islanders traveled to Argentine hospitals,
their young people studied at our universities, they vacationed in the country;
families were living between both geographies. These were islands whose history
and natural development seemed to be leading them, little by little, to become
part of Argentina’s geography. But that did not happen. Suddenly, from one day
to the next, came war—at the hands of a military dictatorship.
That was the moment when the people should have spoken out against the
regime and said: “Not like this. Not by force. Not through war. That
language—the language of war—belongs to you, the warmongers, who seek
achievement only through military means, inside and outside the country. No.
Argentina is much more than that. We will not support a unilateral decision,
devoid of morality or reason, that drags us into a senseless war against a
global power.”
The people should have stood up and said that they would not allow their
young to risk their lives for the whim of a decaying general who resorted to
such actions only to save his own skin—to legitimize his place within an
illegal government. The Argentina that was slowly awakening, demanding a return
to democracy, could have said: “No, sir, not like this. This is not the
Argentina we want.”
But the opposite happened. An entire nation—beaten and wounded by years
of dictatorship, disappearances, and violence—chose, without hesitation, to
support the decision of a military regime that dragged it straight into war.
It seems people fail to understand that in war there are no winners or
losers—everyone loses. The loss of even a single human life does not justify a
single square meter of land. My experience in those years was terrible.
Strangely, all my friends and acquaintances were convinced that the military
action—the seizure of the islands by force—was something positive, living in
what seemed like total ignorance of what it truly meant to go to war. In my
case, my family and I were among the few in our circle—and I believe among a
minority nationwide—who were against the war.
My friends said my position was because “you’re German…” Something that
was hard, almost incomprehensible to me. I had always felt Argentine to the
core—in a country where being Argentine usually meant being the child or
grandchild of immigrants. It was a difficult time, full of loneliness.
I had just finished military service and knew that at any moment I could
be called up to fight in a senseless war—to kill or be killed… to kill young
Englishmen, as young and trapped as I was in a system that never asked you, as
a veteran friend of mine used to say, “Do you want to give your life for your
country?” Most people didn’t give their lives for their country; they sent
us—the young—to do it.
I couldn’t even imagine how I, as a teenager, was expected to kill other
young people from a country part of my own family had come from. What reason
could I possibly have to invade islands, to take by force a population that had
lived for generations not only in peace among themselves but also with us? To
invade, to kill, to seize forgotten islands at the end of the world… My teenage
mind wrestled with how to avoid being drawn into that senseless war. I even
spent long nights outdoors to greet Pope John Paul II—not because I was a
believer, but in the hope that his visit and intervention might put an end to
that madness… but not even the Pope could stop it.
I considered leaving the country, but I had already been ordered to
remain ready for call-up at any moment. I even thought about escaping illegally
across one of the country’s borders, imagining that perhaps I could swim across
a river to another land. Those were complex times, and I finally decided to
stay and face my fate—a fate decided by others, endorsed by a people who did
not understand that this was war… a war in which soldiers and civilians would
die, and perhaps I would too. I promised myself that if I survived and returned
home, I would leave Argentina and never come back. Fortunately, the war ended
before I was recruited. Later, many friends came to tell me, “You were
right—this war made no sense.” But the damage had already been done.
I still cannot understand how people lived through the war with such
enthusiasm, almost as if it were a World Cup. The memory of the 1978 World Cup,
when Argentina won the trophy, still lingered in everyone’s minds—and every
sinking ship, every downed British plane, was celebrated as if it were a goal.
I can still hear the shouts of victory from the students at my university
cafeteria, cheering every bad bit of news for the British. Shooting down
something English was a real celebration. Even the “Marcha de Malvinas,”
created to glorify the campaign, followed exactly the same melody as the 1978
World Cup march. In a country like Argentina, where football is almost a
religion and where winning—even by cheating—is all that matters, it was hard to
imagine those fleeting military “victories” being treated any differently.
Our armed forces were mainly composed of 18- and 19-year-old boys without
training—“the boys of the war”—suddenly sent to a hostile climate, without
preparation, equipment, or proper food, and with no understanding of what
awaited them. They arrived on islands where the cold, wind, and autumn humidity
were relentless. Boys sent by the decision of a few, supported by many, with no
chance to choose for themselves. And in those trenches, many began to wonder
whether suicide was the only way to end it all.
A country under collective brainwashing entered the war, forgetting the
misery it was living through. During the conflict, television programs
collected money, jewelry, clothing, and food that never reached those poor boys
freezing in the trenches. When the war ended, many of them were ignored, hidden
from society, as a way of disguising the terrible defeat—both military and
moral—of a nation trapped in hollow nationalism. Maimed boys, physically and
psychologically, left without adequate support, abandoned to their fate… for
many, suicide became the only escape from the depression of post-traumatic
stress.
Broken families: mothers, fathers, wives, children—all scarred forever by
the loss of those who gave their lives, or their mental health, on those
distant islands. Later, through political manipulation of the conflict, those
forgotten soldiers were recast as “heroes”—not to care for or protect them, but
to serve as tools of political power. Many of those young men internalized that
recognition and turned the Falklands cause into a life mission, their hatred of
the English into a reason for being. And thus, a country that had never fought
a modern war became gripped by militarism and hatred of another nation—an
unbelievable thing in a country built on immigration, where the English had
played an important role in shaping the nation itself.
And so, an enemy was created—one that had to be defeated. Instead of
seeking more intelligent and constructive ways to channel this energy, today
the Falklands cause has become one of militarism and hate. Of course, there are
also other veterans who understand that they were not heroes (again: no one
asked them if they wanted to give their lives for their country), but victims
of a dictatorial system. Many could not bear the weight society placed on them
as “heroes” and also took their own lives to escape the pain. Many families
thus had to face the sorrow of “losing” their sons all over again. And even
today, it is difficult for many veterans who reject the nationalist narrative
and the manipulated idea of sovereignty to express their truth—they are attacked,
dismissed, and silenced by those who feed on political power sustained by
hatred toward the English.
Those same forces are now shaping the narrative of an entire society,
especially among the youth, who largely do not know the true history of the
war—where hatred and militarism are presented as symbols of nationality. This
is not only sad but also paradoxical: the vast majority of people in this
country descend from other lands and cultures, in a modern nation that, like
many others, displaced its Indigenous peoples. On the one hand, the memory of
General Julio Argentino Roca—a military man who, rightly or wrongly, responded
to the nation-building context of his time by displacing Indigenous peoples—is
condemned. Yet, on the other, the decision of a general who, for purely
personal and political motives, led Argentina into a war, attempting to seize
islands by force and subjugate their peaceful inhabitants, is celebrated.
Tragically, this narrative will continue to take root in current and
future generations if nothing is done to change it. In such a context, it will
be very difficult to envision a peaceful, democratic, inclusive, and innovative
solution that could finally resolve this conflict. It will be hard to imagine a
path that truly leads the Malvinas/Falkland Islands toward a future of peace
and harmonious coexistence between the islanders and the mainland—a future that
would, as I wrote in a poem marking the 30th anniversary of the war, “return
free skies to the birds and joy to those islands.”
Land of the albatross, land of
love
Graceful albatross couple, gives birth to their innocent offspring
In a land where the sea and the wind fill the heart
Generations of albatross made these islands their home
Unaware of maps, history and the desolation of futile wars
Fruit of love, a small child with light blue eyes is born
Its first words evoke Celtic lands and language
Generation after generation, they laugh and cry together
Blind to the world, isolated in their land, they live their moment
A kiss of love, to another little person gives birth, brown its eyes
Whose first Castilian words, breathe warmth into a new continent
Immigrant stories, ancestral suffering, dreams of a future
Unaware of the sad fate others with small minds are plotting
Tresses of ebony interlace, generate a tiny being, black its eyes
Its first sounds echo a free and wild land
Original race, a land blessed
by ancestors, slowly conquered
Hurt became the “new” lands, yet
lands of the “old” language
It is the story of those who were here, those who came later, of those who remained
Stories of peoples, the union of cultures and dreams in small geography
The land is from nobody, the land is from everybody, it is the blending of
hearts
Through respect, mutual help and shared growth, the love between peoples creates space for joy
There was a time when the albatross and other creatures lived together in harmony in the islands
There were no misunderstandings, the flight of the albatross freed all to
dream
Generations, races, colours, stories, these were the fruits of a shared
soil
But the horror of the war stunned all, even the albatross, who ceased his
flight
Someone forced them to turn
harmony into hate
Disrupted the blending of
different cultures from its natural evolution
That sons would mourn their
fathers, such cruel and painful bereavement
Such that to be island or
continent was an insult, a symbol of separation
I would like to believe that
we learnt something from the suffering
That life offers us wiser and more
luminous ways
That no land justifies the
death of some
And that sharing is the way to
heal wounds, the way to dissolve hatred
I would like to believe that
the albatross will fly again, free and enamoured
That new generations will repair the damage caused by those who knew not how to love
That the colors of the flags will blend into a rainbow of hope
That the tears of different tongues will merge in the waves of the ocean
At the end this is our longing, and without doubt we always knew it
That to honour the suffering, we need to embrace our different hues
To return to the birds their free sky and to the islands their joy
To these precious islands, land of the albatross, land of love
Bariloche 27th March 2012,
dreaming of a future of love for the Falkland Islands
(1982-2012)
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