ASUNCIÓN, Paraguay (AP) — More than three decades after the fall of Gen. Alfredo Stroessner, many Paraguayans feel his presence still looms large. Ousted in 1989 after a brutal 35-year rule that saw 20,000 people tortured, executed, or disappeared, his legacy remains a barrier to justice.
“This may be the only country where the party that supported a dictator remains in power even after he’s gone,” said historian Alfredo Boccia. “That’s why it took so long to investigate, why most of the disappeared were never found, and why so few trials ever took place.”
Disappearances under authoritarian rule are tragically common in Latin America. While Argentina and Chile’s cases are widely known, thousands vanished under dictatorships across the region. In Paraguay, however, families searching for their missing loved ones face a unique struggle—Stroessner may be long gone, but his influence remains.
The Search for the Disappeared
For 47 years, Rogelio Goiburu has searched for his father, who was abducted in 1977 for opposing the regime. Now the director of the National Memory Office, Goiburu has dedicated his life to uncovering the truth. “My father trained us for survival,” he said. “He prepared us to fight Stroessner’s rule endlessly.”
Yet, achieving justice in Paraguay is an uphill battle. Stroessner’s grip on power was unmatched in the region—he was president, leader of the ruling Colorado Party, commander of the armed forces, and chief of police. Even his downfall came from within his own party, which has governed Paraguay almost uninterruptedly ever since.
Public criticism of the Colorado Party’s role in the dictatorship remains rare. In 2018, Paraguayans elected Mario Abdo, the son of Stroessner’s former private secretary, as president. He even served as a pallbearer at the dictator’s funeral in Brazil, where Stroessner died in 2006 without ever facing justice.
With the Colorado Party still dominant, accountability is elusive. Streets in Asunción bear the names of military leaders, few perpetrators have faced trial, and history lessons in public schools barely mention the dictatorship.
A Battle for Memory
Goiburu has been appointed to lead the country’s historic memory efforts, but without government funding, he relies on personal funds and donations. Over the years, he has won the trust of former police officers and military commanders, extracting confessions about how bodies were disposed of.
Unlike Argentina, which has a government-funded effort to identify the disappeared, Paraguay lacks a genetic database. Goiburu sends DNA samples to Argentinian forensic experts for analysis. And while in Mexico, mothers routinely dig up unmarked graves in search of their missing children, Paraguay has had only one major excavation—led by Goiburu himself from 2009 to 2013. Of the 15 bodies found, only four were identified.
Some Paraguayans downplay the need for justice, arguing that only 500 people disappeared over 35 years, compared to Argentina’s 30,000 victims in under a decade. But for families, even one disappearance is devastating.
“Every disappearance robs a family of the right to mourn,” said Carlos Portillo, a researcher for Paraguay’s Truth Commission. “In every culture, mourning is sacred. When someone is disappeared, that right is stolen, making it impossible to move on.”
Goiburu’s mother kept an empty chair at the Christmas table for her missing husband. Until her death in 2024, she never stopped searching.
A Dictatorship’s Political Purge
Dr. Agustín Goiburu, Rogelio’s father, was a respected doctor and leftist leader. Before he entered politics, he treated poor patients for free in rural Paraguay. “People paid him with eggs, bananas, or chickens,” his son recalled.
Initially, Dr. Goiburu supported the ruling Colorado Party. When Stroessner took power in 1954, many Paraguayans believed he would bring stability after years of turmoil. Instead, he launched a reign of terror.
During the Cold War, with U.S. support, Stroessner outlawed communism and used it as a pretext to target all political opponents. “They called me ‘the bishop in a red cassock’—meaning I was a communist,” said Bishop Melanio Medina, who later led the Truth Commission. “Only those who stayed silent were welcome.”
Dr. Goiburu refused to cooperate with the regime. Stroessner’s forces frequently sent tortured prisoners to hospitals, expecting doctors to falsify death certificates. Some physicians even supervised torture sessions. But Goiburu resisted—and became a target.
The Churches’ Quiet Resistance
A handful of religious leaders formed the Churches Committee in 1976, a secret network that helped political prisoners and their families.
“We had no information about the disappeared,” recalled Spanish priest José María Blanch, who led the group. “So, religious organizations began visiting prisons.”
Under the guise of delivering food or vaccines, they documented prisoner names and relayed information to their families. “We weren’t thinking about spiritual guidance,” Blanch admitted. “These were matters of life and death.”
Rosa María Ortiz, a committee member, would visit detention centers claiming to be sent by the bishop. Her deception helped families learn who was being held and where.
A Legacy of Fear
Many of Stroessner’s victims were abducted in Argentina as part of Operation Condor, a covert collaboration between South America’s dictatorships to eliminate political enemies. Both Goiburu’s and Federico Tatter’s fathers disappeared in this cross-border repression.
Tatter, then a young man, was on his way home in Buenos Aires when he saw soldiers raiding his house. He briefly met his father’s eyes as the officers dragged him away. “I’m the last family member who saw him,” he said.
For Goiburu, the news came from a neighbor—his father had been detained in Argentina and sent to Paraguay. After that, the trail vanished.
The Weight of Silence
Paraguay briefly experienced opposition rule from 2008 to 2012, but fear still lingers.
“I found two skeletons that I know belong to victims,” Goiburu said. “But their families refuse to give DNA samples. They don’t want anyone to know they were communists.”
Even Goiburu himself is cautious—he keeps few written records, fearing what could happen if the wrong people gain access.
Still, he holds onto one dream: writing a book about his father.
“I dream of him every week,” he said. “More than my father, he was my friend. I need him as a friend.”
