Where are those who are missing?

In this place there are no graves, but empty spaces with names, portraits that no longer look and mothers with their voices worn out from crying out to the dust.

While governments try to clean their image with speeches that do not eliminate the blood, families dig with their fingernails in the places where justice does not dare to look. They transform the earth into altar and executioner, into hope and condemnation.

They have taken away their loved ones and, in exchange, they have left them a calendar of anniversaries that are not celebrated, a dish served that rots in the waiting and a bed that can no longer be a bed, because there is no rest where absence dwells.

Each missing person becomes a constant echo, a story suspended between fear and rage, in a country that bleeds inside and gets used to ignore the pain.

But it hurts. Where are those who are missing? They are in the air that no longer breathes the same, in the gaze of a mother who does not know whether to cry or die, in the walls with printed faces that see more than they are observed.

They are gone, but the search for them continues. Each missing body is a broken promise of humanity.

Someday, the earth will give back what it was forced to swallow, and on that day, the world will tremble, because they will return not only with their bones, but with the accumulated cry of all those still missing. Then, memory will be transformed into justice.