BUENOS AIRES, Argentina (news agencies) — On Oct. 7, when Hamas militants attacked numerous targets in Israel, killing hundreds and abducting others, Marina Degtiar felt she had traveled back in time, to July 18, 1994.
What happened in Buenos Aires 30 years ago broke her apart. A bomb-laden van exploded inside a Jewish community center where her 21-year-old brother Cristian worked.
It was the worst such attack in Argentina’s history, killing 85 — Degtiar´s brother among them — and injuring 300.
The destruction of the Argentine-Israelite Mutual Association, known by its Spanish initials AMIA, came two years after a 1992 bombing on the Israeli embassy in Argentina, which killed 29 people. Israeli officials say seven of the victims have never been identified.
Argentine prosecutors blamed Iranian officials for plotting the AMIA attack and said Hezbollah operatives carried it out, but no one has been convicted. Iran has refused to turn over the former officials and ex-diplomats who face charges and denies any involvement.
For many who lost friends and family to the attack, time has not healed their pain. For some, it’s been worsened by the lack of justice in the case and the outbreak of the Israel-Hamas war.
“If you ask me how I am, I’m emotional,” Degtiar said. “I feel very sad because what’s happening in Israel affects us as humankind, as Jews, and me personally.”
Degtiar said she has lived two lives — one before the loss of Cristian and one after his death.
Decades ago, she used to feel that her family lived far away from the bombs they saw falling on TV.
“Thirty years ago, it was not natural, here in Argentina, to talk about terrorism,” Degtiar said. “Bombs did not explode at home like they first exploded at the embassy, or in my case, in the attack against the AMIA.”
After months of deep grief, she decided that being paralyzed by her pain was a lack of respect to her brother’s life, so she took action.
She spent years sharing her story among self-help groups and eventually became a psychologist. Currently specializing in grief counseling, Degtiar comforts those who mourn a loved one, as she has done.
In her approach toward patients, she usually discloses that she lost someone too and thus can empathize with them.
“I built myself a life that justifies me talking about Cristian, my brother, every day,” Degtiar said. “I name my brother every day of my life.”
Sandra Miasnik didn’t find out what had happened on Oct. 7 through the news.
The horror intruded into her home in Buenos Aires through a WhatsApp group: A screenshot showed her cousin Shiri Bibas hugging her two red-headed children above a message. “They took them away.”
“I remember that moment very well,” Miasnik said. “I said: ‘No, that’s not her.’ Check out the psychological defense mechanism of not seeing what you are seeing.”
She walked around her house without knowing what to do, waiting for information. Then she learned that her uncle José Luis Silberman, who migrated from Argentina to Israel in the 70s to seek a life away from the dictatorship, was killed by Hamas.
After the Hamas attack, Argentina’s Foreign Affairs Ministry revealed that seven Argentine nationals were killed, while 15 more were snatched from their homes. Among them was Mianisk’s cousin and her 9-month-old baby, Kfir Bibas, the youngest Israeli dragged into Gaza.
President Javier Milei — who has shown a public interest in Judaism — traveled to Israel in late January and called for release of the 11 Argentines who remained in captivity.
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