Nothing personal

After seven years of not having any contact, we got in touch again thanks to social networks. He appeared on Facebook one day and we became friends there. At that time, 2009-2010, I was recovering from a burnout that left me isolated at home and from which I more or less rehabilitated little by little and with a lot of patience. One day I saw that Martin had posted something about the military dictatorship and I dared to ask him if he thought he was the son of the disappeared too. I told him about my suspicions and that I had approached the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo before moving to Sweden, but that I didn’t leave the DNA for them to find a match at their DNA bank. He, with the self assurance that characterizes him, answered me: "I don't think I am a son of  a disappeared person, but I'm about to travel to Argentina. Do you want me to find out if you are?" I answered yes, not really understanding how he could find out such a thing, and at the same time not daring to ask him. Martín traveled to Argentina and returned a few weeks later, but I wasn’t ready to hear the answer. It wasn't until a year later that I worked up enough courage to do it and his response was: “I was afraid you would ask me, because the answer is hard. Yes you are. I, on the other hand, am not." We talked about it via Skype chat. I kept asking him questions, but he told me that this, was the only information he had been given. I asked if I could speak directly to them, and more importantly, who "they" were. “Nata, these are dangerous people. Don't get involved" he replied.It was first in 2018 that I understood what he meant. Since he arrived in Switzerland, Martín has been working in security, thanks to his past in the police and military. And thanks to the fact that he worked very hard and consistently, he achieved a very good economic and social status. Basically, Martín, after surviving Argentina, reinvented himself and rebuilt his life. A bit like me, if you take away economic success and social status.After he told me what he had found out, we lost contact again. I always take very strong news very calmly, and at that time, I was just coming out of my peak of depression, and I wanted to dedicate myself more than anything to producing my music and rebuilding my life from a healthier place. I was 33 years old and had released my first single produced by me, "No te doy más" through my record company "El Sol y la Luna music". -If I may say, quite an achievement for someone who two years before could barely get out of bed, answer the phone or leave the house. The road to rehabilitation from a burnout, or any type of depression or trauma is long, complex, and you have to have a lot of patience and perseverance. In my case, at that time at least, it consisted of training, going to my twelve-step meetings, meditating, and going to talks by my friend Jeremy Halpin, an expert in Chinese medicine, about the connection between energy, the body, the emotions and the soul.I was determined to recover, and dealing with the search for my biological origin was a luxury I could not afford at the time. In theory, I understood how essential a person's biological identity is, but the whole thing was so overwhelming that I didn't see a reason to go there. I decided that it was the moment in my life to build my future the way I wanted to build it. It was already 2012 and it was time to invest in my career, have economic stability, and eventually later on, if that was what we wanted with my partner, even think about having a family. But as I usually say, I can always count on my life to ruin my plans. 2013 arrived and with that February the death of my mother. The search could not wait any longer. It was written in the stars. From that year on, the noise inside me would stun me until I listened to it. Slowly but surely, the door opened, and I felt like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole.I already talked about what followed. It was going to the Grandmothers of  Plaza de Mayo and eventually leaving my DNA at the end of 2015, to see if my biological family was in their genetic data bank.That year I had won a scholarship from the Swedish Arts Grants committee, to work with the argentine artist Kevin Johansen and I took the opportunity to travel to Argentina and stay until I received the result, which as I already mentioned was negative.I returned to Sweden in April 2016 to resume my Swedish life with a plan: I was going to lock myself in my studio, get depressed and work. That great emptiness and hopelessness that the result had left me was going to consume me, and I was going to let it. I was not going to resist, I was not going to have more hope, I was not going to try to find the positive side of all this, or try to understand what I learned from it. I was just going to sink into my pain and self-pity.But Simon, and John, my partner at the time, had other plans. The two came together one day to my studio and ambushed me saying: “That's it? Are you going to give up?" They insisted for a long time, they gave me all the reasons why I couldn't give up, they very seriously explained to me that if I did I would regret it in the future and after all, if we had already come this far, why not continue a little bit more? That someone had to know something more. Somehow there should be another way to continue the search. Why not hire a private detective?To which I finally said: "Well, maybe there is someone who can help me."It is in this part when I tell this story, that a character from the Mexican television children's program “Chespirito” appears in my head. A superhero with whom I grew up, who wore a huge heart on his chest as an emblem, the red Cricket. The scene was always the same, someone was in trouble and said "And now, who can defend us?" and out of nowhere he appeared, and everyone yelled "the red cricket!" " El Chapulín colorado" to which he responded "You didn't count on my cleverness" "No contaban con mi astucia!"and saved the day.So there, when Simón mentioned the private detective I thought: “I'm going to call my Red cricket”. I sent Martin a message right there and of course he answered within minutes.  Thus we resume the adventures of Naty and Martin, the red cricket.I told him everything that had happened. Everything.The story with the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, the documentary, my sadness. And Martín, who is a born hero, without hesitating for a minute, decided to help me.  Simon, John and me, traveled to Switzerland in October 2016. We only stayed a couple of days, I brought him a copy of the file that Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo had on my case and Martín as soon as he read it, sent a message to a contact in Argentina who could provide us with information about the doctor who sold me, Celestino Bartucca and the address where I was supposedly born. Within an hour we received the answer: “There were many people who asked about that address and that doctor, especially cases that had to do with the theft of babies during the time of the military dictatorship”. He also sent us the link to a YouTube video of hidden camera footage of Dr. Bartucca, where it was made clear that the sale of babies was very common and hardly penalized. Who had uploaded it on youtube was Lorena Quiroga, a participant in that video. A brave woman who, also being sold by the doctor, was looking for her truth.We returned from Switzerland and my soul was aching. They had sold me like a pet. Reality is more beautiful when one imagines it than when one confronts it. But I also came back with a new inner strength thanks to the fact that Martín, who really had no reasons to do it, had used his contacts and dedicated his precious and scarce time to us for a couple of days. Faced with such a heavy reality, a hero stood up and changed the course of my story. A hero would take off his disguise and show himself for who he really was and lift me out of the mud.  We met again in Paris, when we went with Simon to meet Ignacio Carlotto, the recovered grandson I talked about before and Claudia Carlotto, coordinator of Conadi, and again when we traveled to Argentina together in 2018 and found out about baby trafficking and tried to connect the military dictatorship with Dr. Bartucca. The last trip to Argentina was made by Simón and I alone. Of course I missed Martin, but I also understand that for whatever reason, he may have had to put his time and energy into other things. Martín and I swim in the same water and although in many ways we are very different, somewhere inside of us we are very similar. When he looks at me I know that he sees me and when I look at him I believe or hope that he knows that I see him too. Being able to do part of this journey with him was a luxury, being able to inhabit his aura was fascinating. There are people like that in the world, with so many layers and facets and depths that are endless. Martin is one of them. A hero who blends in very dark places, but who will always be who he has always been, that boy I knew, who played detective at recess, the one who defended those who couldn't defend themselves, the one who loved justice since a young age.His soul will always be his soul. And I will always know that it is there. It doesn't matter which path he takes in life. Martin will always be my unwitting hero. My red cricket. My Chapulín colorado.

Since I first found out I was adopted, around the age of 5 or 6 years, every time the subject is brought up in any possible situation, what follows directly after is some kind of comment that tries to direct my perception of what happened at the beginning of my life to a place of non-importance – trying to normalize it.Needless to say, 99% of people who have done this, are not adopted and grew up with their biological family. For example: "But your biological origin doesn't matter, what matters is your real family". Or: "Think how lucky you were. Imagine where else you would be now if you wouldn’t have been adopted". "Mom is not the one who gave birth to you, but the one who raised you". Or the classic: "you are looking for excuses to play the victim and not take responsibility for your life", or "you choose to identify yourself as adopted because it is what you know and who would you be without that identity?". Or even, "we all have problems, I also sometimes wondered if I was adopted”. In recent times, since I started telling people about the search and the documentary that we began filming in 2015, the most frequent comment has been: "Don't let this define your life, try to live instead."All these comments, I believe, were never made to harm me. As I understood after my rape, when people feel powerless in the face of injustice, what they try to do is control the damage caused by the unchanging reality, since there is no way to change society and reality as a whole. Just like the comments after my rape that pointed out directly, or indirectly, that I could have done something to prevent it – or that I could have done something to prevent the trauma it caused – many people have tried to do damage control of a cruel society that they are part of, by putting the blame for my pain on me.To illustrate more clearly, what happens is something like this: Imagine that for a reason that you can't control, you step on a floor that is on fire and burn your feet.So people's reaction would be:"Why did you walk on that floor?" And not "Why was that floor on fire?"As the burn-wounds heal, these people push you to walk again."It's over, it's in the past, how much longer will your rehabilitation last?" And not: "how are those wounds?"While the soles of your feet continue to hurt and it is difficult for you to walk, they’ll comment:“I also once wondered if my feet were burned, we all have problems sometimes”, instead of: “I can't really imagine what that pain is like, but I'm here if you need to talk”.While looking for different ways to disinfect the wounds so that they can heal once and for all, some people proclaim:“I think that you really like to identify yourself as the burned one, you like to play the victim”, instead of: “You can do this! One day at a time, you will heal"And every time you are filled with frustration and you wish you were someone else, and not have to go through all that rehabilitation process:“I think you actually like to be the burned one. Who would you be if you weren't that? You know that there are people that are burned far worse than you, right?" Instead of just giving a hug and encouraging: "You're moving forward, keep going, we love you just the way you are."In the event that the anxiety caused by the pain of the reality that one is trying to avoid makes one look for ways to escape from it all and keep one’s self entertained by, say, working too hard, never staying still, seeking toxic relationships, or eating poorly: “Stop running away! Your problem is that you don't confront your pain! You do not accept your past! You don't let go!"Instead of a simple: "How are you?"And the last and most frequent one: "Don't let this define your life, try to live instead." There is so much information in that comment that I don't even know where to start. The phrase that comes to mind is: "What John says about Peter, says more about John than about Peter"For example, how and when could I not let this define my life? Perhaps at the time I was born? Should I have just stood there and said, "No, I don't want to be adopted." Or when society repeatedly pointed out, since I was a little girl, that I was different, should I have responded: "No, I do not allow any of you to define me as different!" Or when my mom repeatedly told me that I had “slum genes”, should I have stopped her right there and said: “First of all, I don't think that the “slum gene” appears in the human genome. Secondly, what’s wrong with being from the slums? And thirdly, in the event that there was such a gene, according to science at this time, it is the habitat that activates different characteristics in people, that is, if my so-called slum gene was activated, it is thanks to you.” I was illegally adopted as a baby. I did not grow up with my biological family. I don't know what the reason was, but that was my fate. That is a fact. I didn't “let it” define me, because I had no choice. The verb “let” in that sentence implies that I chose it. Babies don't choose. They exist. Adults have more options. The identity I received from a society like the Argentine/German one is one that was given to me. The reason why this identity was given to me has to do with many other very complex factors, which have a lot to do with ignorance, consciousness or lack of it and the times we live in. It's not personal, but it happened to me. That I have spent part of my adult life trying to get rid of that identity, and have tried to find an identity that is broader, more inclusive, and in line with who I really am, is my choice. That is my will.  That's why I decided to search for my roots; to understand, accept and eventually let go, all in due time.  That I did learn from my rape. Traumas shape us, until they no longer shape us, until we rebuild ourselves, until we become more than the sum total of the parts that made us. The most important thing is to accompany one’s self at every step, with compassion for the person who bears the pain. In the same way that one would accompany a best friend, by acknowledging courage, frustration, sadness and strength.With this, I don’t want to say that it is not true that sometimes I feel like a victim and I want to curl up on my sofa and never leave my house again. Or that sometimes the pain and pity for myself do not allow me to see the great things in my life, the love, abundance, beauty and creativity. No, that happens to me too.But when people tell me to try to live my life instead, I wonder if they think I'm a millionaire and don't have to go to work and do whatever it takes to live my life like any other grown up person.No, nobody pays my bills so I better take care of myself and stay healthy.Luckily, and probably thanks to the 12-step program, I found a way to still get out of bed every day. If that would change, I would look into other options, such as medication. In the case that "trying to live" actually refers to "trying to enjoy life", well that's a bit more difficult. But believe me, it's not for lack of willpower. Sometimes the wounds just won’t leave me alone. Besides, enjoying life and feeling grateful for what one has, isn't that a challenge for everyone?Oh, and why don’t I heal faster?I don't know. I think somewhere in all of this there is a plan. The other day, I was thinking, without really deserving such a comparison but just to use it as a very clear example, that hadn’t it been for the pain that Martin Luther King felt, what would have happened to the social change that his civil rights movement led? Perhaps it is necessary for us to be exactly who we are, and to walk the path that we are going through in exactly the way we are doing, because in our healing, in each story and each path, there is everyone’s healing.I don't know.I only know that I will not stop being sad because someone tells me to do so. The only thing that would happen then, is that I would stop opening up, talking, sharing. I would instead get depressed, convinced that I deserve my loneliness. Convinced that I deserve my abandonment. And that it's all my fault.And then I would curl up on my sofa and want to disappear. To stop living my life is not an option. I will always do what I can, with the strength and tools I have, like everyone else.Now, on behalf of all of us who are on a heavy path such as the search for our biological identity, I ask you dear people for understanding, hugs and patience.Don't worry about the rest, we've been rootless and defined by it since the beginning of our time, and we're pretty used to it by now.I can assure you, we will live despite it.

The day I went to the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo my legs were shaking. I went there with a friend who held me the last few meters to the door of the building. I made my “spontaneous presentation” at the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo-which basically means that I presented myself there saying that I had suspicions that I was the daughter of a disappeared person. Back in the days there were not many of us who did it. Back then, it was apparently unusual but  changed with the Kirchner presidency that came the following years and today, thanks to a lot of campaigning, it is well known what to do if one suspects to be the daughter or son of a disappeared person and wants to go to Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo.For me it was like coming out of the closet. I made myself visible, according to my family to a possible enemy. As I mentioned before, at that time you only heard stories about how they persecuted people and once they suspected that they had found a son or daughter of a disappeared person, they did not stop until they got a DNA sample from that grandchild and incarcerated the family that raised them. And of course, they had reasons for doing this. In most cases, these babies were the children of detained-disappeared women who were pregnant and who were kept alive in clandestine detention centers until they gave birth. Sometimes these women were even tortured despite being pregnant. The dictatorship had set up  a secret regulation to establish the procedure in these cases and organized clandestine maternity hospitals inside or near the clandestine detention centers, with doctors and nurses under military command. Once the delivery occurred, the mother was murdered and false documents were made for the baby, erasing its original identity. The babies were then delivered to couples who, many times, were accomplices or accessories in the murder of the biological parents and the suppression of the identity of the children. On some occasions, the children were registered as their own by the appropriators and, on others, through illegal adoptions. (Wikipedia)  For some reason and logic that I still have a hard time understanding, it made perfect sense to kill the mothers, but not the newborn babies. From what I understood, they believed that newborn babies could be saved from the left-wing ideologies of their biological parents, if they were raised by right-wing people.I don't remember if I went to The Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo once or twice that year. I do remember meeting Estela de Carlotto, the president of Abuelas, Abel Madariaga, secretary of Abuelas, and I think even Claudio Carlotto, coordinator of Conadi.I remember being able to chat a bit with Abel and Estela and feeling that I was in the presence of great souls, people with integrity, who, because of the things they had experienced and seen, had courage in their eyes. They talked to me about identity, that it was my right and that we all need to know where we come from. For the first time, I felt like someone knew what was happening to me.They asked me to bring my birth certificate so they could start an investigation and determine if there could in fact be suspicions that I was the daughter of a disappeared person. If so, they would ask me for a DNA sample to compare it with the DNA samples from the National Genetic Data Bank (BNDG) where all the samples of the relatives who are looking for the children of the disappeared by state terrorism are stored, and from all the people who suspect they are the daughters or sons of the disappeared, and have already left their sample. At absolutely no time was there any talk of coercion.A few days later I asked my dad for my birth certificate and as I said before, I don't remember much about that day, except that it was probably Sunday because the entire family was at home, and the reaction of all of them consisted more than anything in screams, anxiety, chaos and threats. I, who was never a rebel, nor a person who would ever impose my will, nor one of those who don't care about starting a conflict, did not give in and insisted on having my papers.I left my birth certificate at Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo and soon after moved to Sweden, following that Swedish Viking I fell in love with. The one who seemed so brave, wise and sure of himself. The one who, unlike the world around me, advocated for human rights.I arrived in Stockholm on June 9, 2002, four days before I saw Argentina lose in the World Cup against Sweden, which added even more to that bizarre feeling of having moved to the other side of the planet. Shortly after I settled in, I received a message from my friend Dario who was my contact with Conadi. He had been contacted by them, telling him that they had important news and that I should call them. For those who do not know what the Conadi is, it´s the National Commission for the Right to Identity, which promotes the search for sons and daughters of the disappeared and people born during the captivity of their mothers, during the last Argentine civic-military dictatorship, in order to determine their whereabouts and restore their identity. They are basically the Grandmother’s detectives, the ones who do the investigative part.I took courage and called, like someone who wants to know but doesn't really want to know. They told me that the doctor who signed my birth certificate, Dr. Bartucca, was already being prosecuted-I remember that word "prosecuted" for other cases. Since this was a strong indication that it was very possible that I was the daughter of the disappeared, they asked me to leave the DNA when I was ready to leave it. Again, no coercion.I remember sitting in the living room of that huge apartment in Kungsholmen, the area of ​​Stockholm where we lived, in a state of shock, not knowing what to do with myself. As soon as my Swedish boyfriend got home from work I told him what had happened, but he didn't seem to understand at all what the call I had had earlier with Conadi implied. It seemed there was a good chance that I would find a biological family. In other words, if I left the DNA, my identity would be changed and a process would begin to determine what role my father and mother played in my appropriation. “This is as far as my love for justice goes” I thought “Someday, if the laws change, if I can make sure that nothing happens to my parents, I will leave my DNA”.So years went by, convinced that if I left the DNA I was going to find my biological family and at the same time terrified that I would be forced to leave it and lose so much.In the years that followed, the Argentine government changed and awareness of what happened in the last military dictatorship grew. Also awareness of women's rights and social inequality. I'm not saying this because I sympathize with any political party. The reason why I noticed a change is that my mom began to talk to me about these issues when she  would call me. My mother who did not read a book unless it was about cooking recipes, who at some point questioned whether the Earth was really round and who had television characters like Mirta Legrand and Susana Giménez as a cultural reference - If you don't know who they are, well without wanting to be cruel, I can say, they have not been banners of the high culture and sophistication of the country - well, one day she began to talk about the Grandmothers and feminism. If this information and change of attitude had reached my mother, then there really had been changes in the Argentine society! Without telling anyone, every so often I would send an email to Conadi, asking if the laws had changed. It was the only thing that worried me. Was there any way that I could restore my biological past without having to destroy my present? For me, and perhaps for many others in the same situation as me, the price to pay to obtain the truth of the past was very high. Losing my identity to impose another twice in my life sounds quite unnecessary. I wasn’t a little girl that had been appropriated by a couple for a few years and would go back to my original family when this was happening. When this started I was already 23 years old, a fully-fledged woman. With all the cultural heritage of my adoptive family. A rare cross between a German hybrid because of my dad, an Austrian because of my mom and an Argentine because of the country I grew up in and my genetic heritage. Carrying a last name impossible to pronounce for most Spanish speakers and a strange love for the North European.I always absolutely adored my family. Dysfunctional as it all was, despite the violence and neglect of my parents, I loved them with my entire being, as all children love their parents. When my mom passed away from cancer in 2013, I was by her side until her last breath. And when I hugged my dad before leaving for the airport on June 30, 2022, knowing that it would be the last time I would see him alive, inside I felt like I was dying.Giving up my last name, my history, my inheritance, my family, because at the moment of my birth the chaotic world that surrounded me made the decisions in accordance with an ideology of that moment and in this way forever determined the course of my life, is a lot to ask.I was not prepared to lose so much. Then there was the matter of possible consequences for my family. I couldn't imagine them going before a judge to testify and being mistreated as they surely would be, simply because they "got the wrong baby". As my dad told me: “If I had known where you came from, I never would have adopted you. I don't agree with that ideology."So I took my time. The desire to know my biological identity was interfered with my fear of all the things I would lose if I found my origin. The right to my identity came with a huge cost.  Besides, life in Sweden kept me quite busy,trying to survive as an artist and musician. And with all that trauma on top of everything that kept me awake at night and weak during the days. Trying to live my life beyond the hurts and pains. Trying to dream and find joy in the everyday. Such  a hole in my soul, I can assure you, requires a lot of energy and managing.Still to this day, trying to be happy and feel grateful for this life, for me it's a full time job.So, that whole business of taking life changing decisions?  Well, I decided to leave it for much, much later.

The relationship with my family was, in general, difficult. The relationship with my family during my search was particularly difficult.At my age, I have understood that we all do the best we can with what was given to us in this life and that it is impossible to give what you never received. So it was impossible for my parents to give what they never receivedA couple of years ago I asked my dad if he remembered when it was that my mom started being that bitter and aggressive person I grew up with. The fights at home were always violent.My mother always started them and my father endured the aggression until he exploded. The fights then became a marathon of physical, mental and emotional aggression from both sides, which could last for several days. My brother and I grew up in the midst of that unstoppable whirlwind that was created by them.Violence and abusive behavior towards children was very common in those days and I would even say it was considered normal. Things that at the time were considered a daily part of raising children would today make the majority react. But it all really escalated when I was 11, after my grandmother died. And I never understood why my father would put up with a woman as aggressive and cruel as my mother. I always thought that something must have happened to her along the way that turned her into that monster. The only answer I got from my dad was that she really dreamed of having children and after trying for 10 years, that frustration and sadness changed her. Eventually they adopted us and thus the dream of the two children, the house, the car and the provider husband came true. But despite that, there was a pain in her soul that never left her alone. And my father, who only wanted to play tennis, have two children, a house, a car and a beautiful housewife, had no peace either. His peace was always dependent on her peace. My brother, the first one to be adopted three years before me, was always the pride of the family, something that was obvious to everyone who knew us. Not only did he suffer the typical older sibling feeling of being displaced when I arrived, but he was also the one who suffered far more physical abuse than I did. Perhaps because he was the son, he learned to confront them and that's why he received much harsher punishment.I saw that, and I learned not to complain, or answer, or take space, or be sad. I learned to avoid the blow. My brother learned to take it. None of us had peace. He learned to confront, I learned to disappear, put on a poker face and pretend as if "nothing is happening here."A couple of years ago I realized that it is not normal for a 6 year old girl to pray to God at night to take her away because everything she does is wrong and she is just a mistake in this world.In my egocentrism as a child, when I thought I was the cause of all this, I thought it was my job to create that peace that didn't exist. That it was my job to save them, protect them, make them laugh, explain to them and show them how much I loved them, to beg them to stop fighting, to try to understand what hurt them so much and find a solution, a relief so that they would finally find peace within themselves and finally see me. So that there would be love in my family, the love that I had been waiting for for so many years. I did, as children do, everything I could to make them love me as I wanted to be loved, but I never succeeded. So asking about my adoption did not exist in my reality.The biggest threat, from what I understand, for adoptive parents, is that one day their adopted child will come to them and tell them “it's over”. That they don't love them anymore and that they are going to  look for their real family. The anxiety of losing their beloved children can make them quite crazy. And it´s understandable. It must be so scary. I felt that all the time. "Even a mare can give birth! A mother is the one who raises you", is what my mother used to say to make it clear to me that it was not worth looking for my biological mother.Children feel what their parents feel. Children understand beyond their words. So I never threatened to look for my biological mother. I had nowhere to go, there were no legal papers about who it was. The feeling that I had was that my biological mother didn't even bother to do things legally. She got rid of me "like a mare". At that time we began to hear about the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo and their search for the children stolen by the dictatorship. But it never dawned on anyone in my family that I was one of them. As I mentioned earlier, according to the social norms of the time, I was the daughter of a slum person, a mare, also known as a poor person with no morals, who left me without looking back. But luckily, this family wanted to adopt me and give me the comfort of a middle-class life. As everyone had told me: "There´s no need to look back. The past must be forgotten." Now, before I continue, a trigger warning here, as this is about to get a little bit darker.The good thing or the bad thing, depending on how you look at it, is that life has its own plans.Now, before I continue, a trigger warning here, as this is about to get dark.My suspicions about being the daughter of The Disappeared began sometime in 2001, but it was thnaks thanks to the rape that I survived the 7th of August of that year that many things changed in my life. That day I left the yoga instructor class and instead of taking the busiest street to walk the 6 blocks home, I took the parallel street. There I was stopped by a guy who threatened to kill me. He kidnapped me and eventually raped me. That day I thought I was going to die. Abuses like the one I suffered are still common in Argentina. It is still easy to rape and then kill women, and in 2001 it was even easier. I thought my time was up, right after the rape I looked around to see if anyone would save me but there was no one. This was my destiny and I thought, "I always did everything everyone wanted me to do, I always behaved well, I always tried not to be a burden, not to rebel, waiting for permission to exist and now I will die. What a waste of a life! In the end, no matter how hard you try, it all happens anyway." At the end of that day, I managed to convince my captor to let me go, and that's how the rebuilding of my being began.With the strength of the pain and probably the adrenaline of having survived, a short time later I asked my father for my birth certificate to go to the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo and start the search. I don't remember exactly what happened that day and I wouldn't remember anything at all if it wasn't for my friend Adri, who was there with me. Apparently, he witnessed the scene where my father gave me the birth certificate yelling, "You're going to send us all to jail," and my mother screaming that if it hadn't been for them, I'd be dead. My family tried to convince me that the past meant nothing and that I was just looking for excuses to play the victim.Everyone in my family was against my search. And not only against it, they were violently against it. They were terrified of what they read in the newspapers about the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo, terrified that I would leave them, terrified that the story was true: that they had bought a baby that had been stolen by the military.That was the last time I talked to them about it. I went to the Grandmothers, did what I was supposed to, moved shortly after to Sweden and never ever mentioned the subject again. My mother tried to get information out of me from time to time and said she had gone to a witch. The witch had told her that I was still searching in silence but that I would wait for her, my mother, to die in order to search freely. The witch was right, but I denied everything. My mother could not handle the anxiety of my search, nor could my father. So why generate more anxiety that I then have to deal with myself? No, I'd rather search in silence.In January 2013, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung and liver cancer. I didn't get to see her while she was still conscious, but my aunt Mary told me that one of the things she had said in her last days was that she wanted me to would find my biological mother. My adoptive mom used to tell me that she watched that show on TV called “People looking for people” (Gente que busca gente) to see if any mother looking for a daughter who looked like me would show up. And when she would tell me this, I always answered : "I already have a mom." In my eyes, my mother was like a little girl with a great inability to regulate her emotions. All my life I protected her from me and my truth, and I wasn't going to stop until the day she left this dimension.Once she died it was time to gather my courage and talk to my dad. In 2015, when I went to Argentina, I asked him if we could have coffee. For 13 years I prepared what I was going to say: "Dad, the grandmothers are getting old now, I can't wait any longer." So that's exactly what I said to him that day in that cafe in the Plaza de Martinez and to my surprise, my dad agreed with me 100 percent. Of my parents, he was always the most reasonable. His response was positive, he also thought it was time and not only that, he ended the conversation by saying, "I don't agree with that ideology," referring to how the military junta decided to settle the question of what to do with the babies born to people they captured, tortured and killed.That was not the reaction I expected from my father. Apparently my mom and dad had time to think during the 13 years of silence. I can imagine that it was probably because the governments that have been in power since I moved to Sweden made the work of the grandmothers visible in a positive way and brought forward the atrocities of the military junta, which made my parents' conscience weigh heavily. So, with my father's permission, I contacted the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo the following year and eventually left the DNA sampleThe result was negative, which meant that they found no DNA match. The first thing I did when I got the news was to call my dad and tell him, "Dad, the DNA results from the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo were negative." It was important that he knew that he no longer had to be afraid, no one would be looking for him to make his life hell. His response was very typical of him: “Is that why you're calling me? What pizza do you want to eat tonight?” The beauty of this is that Simón captured that moment, which, like many moments with my family, when reality beats fiction.After that, my dad never understood why I kept looking: "It makes her feel bad," was always his comment. "I think she needs to leave all that behind." As we continued to search, I learned more and more about how my purchase went, and how the baby buying market is doing. My father never remembered anything. "That happened 40 years ago, it's not important to me," was always his reply. And when I told him what I had found out, he confirmed it. But he never helped me. I think the shame gave him amnesia.The last time I went to Argentina to finish the search, I asked him if he knew why I was there and he said yes. And after visiting the last mother, he asked me: “So? Did you find anything?” "No," I replied in a careless tone, almost as if I didn't even care. When Simon asked him what he thought of my search, my dad replied in the same careless way, "I don't care, she can do whatever she wants, as long as it doesn't hurt her." I could never, ever show pain to my father. I would never, ever express my desire to really know the truth about my origins. As for the documentary, it was his opinion that we were wasting our time: "Who would want to see that?" He always said to Simon and me. I never really wanted to talk about any of it with my family. The lack of harmony and space to have calm conversations made it impossible for me to be honest and tell what was happening inside me. If everything was already so difficult between us, let alone trying to talk to them about a topic as charged as the search for my biological identity. Best to say nothing and act quietly. Better to protect them and protect myself from my truth.

In order to find something, you must first understand what you are looking for. And I don't think I understood what I was looking  for until I actually began knocking on doors. Doors behind which might reveal my biological mother.Our identity is not something permanent. There are components of our identity that are constantly changing. And there are also other components that don't change that much. Our biological identity, for example, is one of the parts that doesn't change that much. That is, unless there are significant treatments or interventions done on the body, it is most likely that we will somehow resemble our biological relatives. And that we inherit our genetics from our ancestors. If we simplify the question: Did you find your biological origin? Then the answer is also simple. It's either a yes or a no. But every time I get this question, the answer is not at all simple, because I hear a whole different  question in my head. What I hear is: “Now that you better understand who you are and what happened the moment you were born, do you understand why you were abandoned? That is why it is difficult to find a quick answer to this question, because both the question and the answer are really complex. Now, if I would find someone who is biologically related to me, well, that would be wonderful. Because it's something I've never had and really wish I could find. But with that said, that is a much simpler answer. As for the search for my biological identity, it was not clear to me what I was really looking for. I mean, I had a feeling, but I didn't really understand. Thanks to the conversations with a person named Mercedes Yañez, I was able to connect a little bit with what was happening inside me. Understanding the big question was the real journey. What am I looking to heal? What part of me am I missing? And why is it so important?If we assume that my search began the day I suspected that I was the daughter of the disappeared during the dictatorship, then I can say that what I was looking for all along was to accept what happened. And how it happened. And It’s it’s hard to reconstruct the truth when you don't have it. The expectations, the dreams and fantasies that this emptiness feeds from are very powerful. As if my feet can never touch the ground, because there is a bit of truth that I don’t understand. It wasn't so much figuring out who I am, because at my age I already am who I am, instead it was about figuring out why I am.So knocking at the doors of women where one of them could actually be my biological mother gave a  face to a fantasy. Although none of them turned out to be my biological mother, they were all my mothers in a way. And in their stories I could see and understand something that without their bravery I would have never understood or found: context. These mothers had never forgotten their daughters. Whatever the reason for the pregnancy, the girl that was born was not just a mistake that had to be corrected by handing it over to other people. That girl always remained in the memory of these mothers. It never left them. The answer I was looking for was largely answered. "How could you let me go? How could you hand me over to strangers who God knows what they would do to me? Was I worth so little? Was it all worth so little to you?But it wasn't like that at all, she didn't just let me go. There were no other options. And The the family that adopted me was not chosen. They were just there, at the right place and the right time. Nothing more. It wasn't personal. I didn't cause it, nor controlled it. Everything just happened that way. Life is a lottery and you get what you get. It's not fair, there are no rules. Or if there are, they are very difficult to understand and it is beyond me to do so. So my answer is, yes, I found a lot. And I understood at least through my journey and experience that mothers do not forget their children. Never. (Ever)And none of this was personal. It has nothing to do with me.But yes, it did happen to me.

The simple answer would be in 2015, when The Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo contacted me to leave my DNA, to see if there was a match with their DNA bank . For those who don’t know who they are, Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo is a human rights organization with the goal of finding the children stolen and illegally adopted during the 1976–1983 Argentine military dictatorship.It happened like this: On August 14th, 2015, I received a call from the Argentine embassy in Sweden, saying that they were looking for me from the Argentine Foreign Ministry. When I asked for what matter, they told me they couldn't tell me, but they asked me if I was willing to attend a meeting with them.To make a long story short, my case was taken to court and an official investigation had started. Apparently they had received several anonymous reports at Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo, saying that I possibly was one of the missing children of the dictatorship. Since time had passed and several reports had been made, they had to act upon it.That's how, after talking to the judge, who explained to me that if I didn't leave a DNA sample willingly, they would have to send the Swedish police to my house and get some DNA samples, I finally left it willingly on December the 7th 2015.What that all really meant to me is too long to explain, so for now I'll leave it there.The more interesting question is perhaps, since when have I been curious to know my biological identity?That is a bit more complex to answer. Because at no time did I feel an impulse to find out where my genes came from.Since I was a little girl I always heard my family say, specially my mother that my genes came from the slums. Since my skin was darker than my brother's (also adopted) and I laughed harder than him, and didn't show any kind of sophistication, I obviously came from the slums. I was obviously, according to their world view, of a lower breed. These were their racist assumptions. Racism in Argentina is rooted in colonialism that was of course very evident in the parts of Buenos Aires where Germans from the Second World War moved.This so-called truth was reflected everywhere. At school, for example, I remember that at the age of 6 some boys approached me at recess and said: “You are brown” Which obviously, according to them, wasn’t something good. And that continued throughout my school time. It was always clear to me that I did not belong to the so called superior white race. I had slum genes. And it didn’t help the matter that I was going to a German school in Argentina. So why look for more? To have it all confirmed? No. Society had already given me a place and a status and what I wanted most was to flee from that past and that truth.Until one day I was presented with the opportunity to belong to another truth, or another reality. To another breed.Instead of being the daughter to a slum-person,I could be the daughter of a revolutionary who fought for a better and more just world. A hero who fell into the hands of the enemy. And if that was the case, a totally different blood would run through my veins. And my genes would be brave and courageous. I could be the daughter of a martyr, of a fighter, of a symbol of the truth.So, how is it that I dared to believe in a new truth and begin the search? It went like this:One day I was invited to a wedding. The woman getting married was the daughter to the mom that told my mom twenty two years earlier, that there was a baby girl who was at a doctor and needed to be adopted. Basically thanks to her, my parents adopted me. I went to the wedding with the boyfriend I had at the time. Once there, we noticed that most of the men were dressed in some police or military looking uniforms. I noticed that, not because I had ever suspected that I was the daughter of the disappeared, but because it seemed ridiculous to me to dress in a uniform for a wedding. As I said before, I never thought I could belong to that small and very special marvel of babies stolen by the dictatorship. It had been made clear to me through their class hatred and racist assumptions, that I was a product of a lower social class and therefore I had no sophistication whatsoever. My existence was of no transcendence. So it didn't dawn on me until the day after, when my boyfriend told me that his father had asked him if the people who were the adoption contact with my family, had something to do with the dictatorship.From that day on I never had peace again. It was so obvious. I already knew what I had to do. It was as if the history of the entire country suddenly hung on my shoulders.There was only one thing I could do: Go to the Grandmother of Plaza de Mayo.I finally did it. It took a few months, but I went. I don't remember the exact date, but I know it was before I moved to Sweden the 9th of June 2002 and after the rape I survived the 7th of August 2001I remember standing at the door of the building with my legs shaking. So scared, but I did it anyway.And that's how the search began.Suddenly I could be someone else. Suddenly I was a special person, a national treasure, the balm that could heal a nation's wounds. The living proof that the truth cannot be killed.That’s how, for at least a few years I got to have new genes.I was someone else.