ASUNCIÓN, Paraguay (AP) — Despite being ousted in 1989 after a 35-year reign of terror, during which 20,000 people were tortured, executed or disappeared, some Paraguayans feel as if Gen. Alfredo Stroessner never truly left.
“This is probably the only country in which the political party that supported a dictator, once he is gone, remains in power,” said Alfredo Boccia, a researcher of Paraguay’s history. “That’s why scrutiny took so long, most disappeared were never found and there were barely trials.”
Disappearances are a known phenomena in Latin America. The numbers in and might have gained the most visibility, but thousands more have vanished elsewhere under dictatorships and armed conflicts.
Paraguayans with missing loved ones face a unique struggle, though. While Stroessner has been long gone, his legacy remains a roadblock to their searching.
Rogelio Goiburu’s hair has turned white while looking for his father. His search has spanned 47 years, and he has no intention of giving up, perhaps thanks to his father's teachings.
“Dad trained us on survival,” Goiburu said. “He prepared us to eternally fight Stroessner’s regime.”
Experts say Stroessner’s control was unchallenged by other military strongmen in the region.
He served as Paraguay’s president, leader of his Colorado Party, commander of the armed forces and chief of police. Stroessner was not overthrown by enemies, but by his in-law, and the military members involved were affiliated with his party, which has ruled practically uninterrupted since.
Paraguayans' lack of criticism toward the party for its role in the country's dark past were as palpable as ever in 2018, when president. The Colorado candidate was son of Stroessner’s personal secretary and served as a pallbearer at the dictator’s funeral in Brazil, where he died in 2006 without being convicted of any crimes.
The Colorado Party’s dominance makes accountability elusive. Various streets in Asuncion are named after military leaders. Few of those responsible for crimes have faced trial, and public schools avoid mentioning the dictatorship during history lessons.
Santiago Peña, who won , was aide to cigarette tycoon and former President Horacio Cartes, leader of the party despite by the United States. The Colorados got Peña of the votes, won 15 of the 17 governorships up for election and Congress’ majority.
“Paraguayans now vote for the party freely,” Boccia said. “For those of us who fight for memory, that battle was lost.”
Each missing person counts
Goiburu was named director of historic memory at the Ministry of Justice, but has no budget at hand. By his own means or raising funds, he has filled in the blanks about the fate of his dad and other disappeared people, earning the trust of retired police officers and military commanders who confessed to him alone how bodies were disposed.
Unlike Argentina, where various are government-funded, Paraguay doesn’t have a genetic data bank, so Goiburu relies on Argentinian forensic anthropologists to analyze and safekeep the DNA samples he gathers.
And as opposed to Mexico, where regularly exhume remains, only one major excavation has been done in Paraguay. It was led by Goiburu, between 2009 and 2013, and out of the 15 bodies found, were identified.
Paraguayan search efforts have also proved challenging, as some belittle victims' claims for justice. While 30,000 Argentinians disappeared in a less than a decade-long dictatorship, around 500 people vanished in Paraguay amid the 35-year regime. Regardless, relatives argue, does it take more than a missing person to shatter a family?
“Every disappearance attacks the right to mourn,” said Carlos Portillo, who interviewed thousands of victims for the . “There’s no culture which doesn’t have a ritual for mourning. A disappearance is the denying of this ritual, and that’s why it’s impossible to let go.”
Before Alzheimer's hit, Goiburu’s mother reserved a plate and an empty chair at their Christmas table for her missing husband. And until her death in 2024, she never stopped looking for him.
“Having a disappeared doesn’t mean that a loved one simply left,” said Celsa Ramírez, a former militant of the Communist Party who was imprisoned between 1975 and 1978, and searches for her husband, Derlis Villagra. “It means he was detained, tortured, killed and disappeared. That should weigh heavily on society.”
No communists allowed
Goiburu’s father, Agustín, was a doctor and leftist political leader. Before he fully engaged in politics, he lived with his wife and children in the countryside, often treating patients for free.
“People paid him with eggs, a banana, a couple of hens,” said Goiburu, who became a doctor like him but gave up on medicine to search for his remains.
His dad once was among the Colorado Youth. When Stroessner took power in 1954, dozens had hope, guessing a firm hand would stabilize the country after a war against Bolivia. But a brutal repression emerged.
Amid the Cold War, and supported by the U.S., Stroessner made communism into Paraguay’s No. 1 enemy. He decreed communist activities as “punishable” and eventually targeted all opponents as leftists.
“They used to call me ‘the bishop of the red cassock,’ meaning I was a communist,” said bishop Melanio Medina, who presided over the Truth Commission. “Only those who didn’t speak out were welcomed.”
Goiburu’s father became a target for refusing to cooperate with the dictatorship. The military often transferred executed or tortured prisoners in hospitals, forcing personnel to issue false death certificates to cover up their crimes. In other cases, doctors oversaw torture sessions at detainment centers and advised torturers on the level of harm they could inflict.
Few like Goiburu’s father openly challenged military orders, but other subtle endeavors rose.
Resembling Chile’s , a handful of religious leaders created a multifaith group called the Churches Committee in 1976.
“A lot of people disappeared, but we didn’t have any details,” said Spanish Catholic priest José María Blanch, who headed the committee. “Therefore, religious organizations began visiting prisons.”
Aside from food and clothing, the group provided legal advice for prisoners, financial support for those freed and information for families with loved ones detained.
Rosa María Ortiz, who joined the committee in 1977, said that she used to visit Asuncion’s main detention center and lie to the chief officer, arguing that the bishop sent her to check on prisoners so she could find out what became of them.
As the repression worsened, under the pretext of providing vaccines or books for inmates, personnel drew lists of the prisoners and updated those registers as possible.
“We didn’t even though about providing spiritual accompaniment,” Blanch said. “These were matters of life and death.”
More than a father
Federico Tatter is a friend of Goiburu who shares his ails.
Their fathers had opposite backgrounds — Tatter's was against the dictatorship — but shared a common destiny: Both disappeared after being detained in Argentina, where several opponents of Stroessner fled to protect their families and continue their militance.
According to the Truth Commission, most cases of Paraguayan disappearances during the 1970s happened in Argentina, presumably amid , a coordinated effort among South American dictators to hunt down and eliminate opponents across borders.
In October 1976, Tatter was on his way back home in Buenos Aires when he noticed soldiers raiding his house. He met his father’s eyes while soldiers escorted him out. “I’m the last family member who saw him,” Tatter said. He's uncertain of what happened next.
Goiburu learned about his dad’s disappearance through a neighbor. He in a street in Parana in February 1977 and transferred to Asuncion. Afterwards, the trail goes cold.
“Most Paraguayans don’t realize that many of the things we can do nowadays are thanks of our parents' battles,” said Ricardo Flecha, a singer and human rights activist. “Those fights are what allow us to have at least a modest space where we can now speak out.”
Paraguay’s opposition did hold power once — from 2008 to 2012 — but some old fears remain.
“I found two skeletons that are currently at the morgue under judicial protection,” Goiburu said. “I’m certain about their identities, but relatives won’t give me a blood sample to verify because they don’t want anyone to know they were communists.”
Goiburu himself leads a cautious way of life, scarcely keeping written records of his findings, though there’s a writing project he would love to undertake: a book about his dad.
“I dream of him every week,” he said. “More than my old man, he was my friend. I need him as a friend.”
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