In the heart of Peru, amid the echoes of past upheavals, stands Lidia Flores, an emblem of resilience and hope for countless families torn by internal conflicts. Her story, entwined with Peru's turbulent history, shines a light on the relentless pursuit of justice for the disappeared—some 20,000 victims who vanished during the country's darkest times from 1980 to 2000.
Instead of succumbing to despair after discovering her husband Felipe Huamán’s remains in 1984, Flores decided to become a beacon for others enduring similar pain. From her home in Ayacucho—a city somberly known as the “nook of the dead” in Quechua—Flores continues to guide those still desperate for closure.
“I can’t stay calm when others, like I did, are crying,” says Flores. Her commitment is personified through her role as president of the National Association of Relatives of Detained and Disappeared Persons of Peru (ANFASEP), an organization tirelessly advocating for truth and reparations.
Flores's quest began tragically. Huamán, having been detained by military personnel masquerading as civilians, was found lifeless a month later. Despite a harrowing discovery and the indignity of an inhumane burial suggestion by officials, Flores managed—undercover of night—to lay him to rest.
ANFASEP, established in 1983, consists of around 140 members, each representing a family haunted by the absence of a loved one. Their mission remains unwavering, despite historical and potential political setbacks. President Dina Boluarte’s potential policy changes loom, threatening the delicate balance of truth-seeking.
The genesis of this tragedy lies in the brutal conflict between the Peruvian government and the Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path, a group notorious for violence beginning in the late 1970s. These insurgents aimed to reshape society via radical means, yet so did the governmental forces tasked with quelling them, often resorting to extreme and deadly measures themselves.
Among the tragic stories lies that of Adelina García, whose husband Zósimo Tenorio was forcibly taken in 1983. She recalls the persistent fear living in Ayacucho imparted—a place once thought safer than their rural home. García's account of memory torn apart by violence underscores the collective trauma shared by many.
Her husband's possible fate—a not uncommon rumor among victims' families—involved Cabitos, an infamous army base known for grim secrets. Despite years passing, these families cling to spirituality and prayer, like García, as a means to cope.
Hope flickers in the stories of individuals like Luyeva Yangali, who, inspired by her father Fortunato's disappearance, continues the agonizing search her tortured mother began. Such perseverance ensures their loved ones are remembered, not lost to history's shadows.
Despite only 3,200 remains recovered to date through forensic efforts and the involvement of the International Committee of the Red Cross, ceremonies of restitution offer brief reprieves. Pablo Valerio's poignant farewell to the bones of his family, massacred in 1984, reveals the nuanced tapestry of personal and shared grief.
The human spirit, in its valiance, refuses to forget. In Ayacucho's cathedral, where tears echo prayers, the sorrow transforms to resolve. No one can kill a spirit, so you remain alive, Valerio whispers to his family's remains, encapsulating a sentiment shared by many. They strive not only for memory but also for action, clarity, and peace.
