Rosa Roisinblit, a name synonymous with courage and relentless pursuit of truth, passed away on Saturday in Buenos Aires at the remarkable age of 106. Her death, confirmed by the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo—the organization she helped shape and led as vice president for over three decades—marks the end of an era for Argentina’s human rights movement. Yet, her legacy, forged in the crucible of one of the country’s darkest chapters, continues to resonate far beyond her homeland.
Roisinblit’s story is inseparable from the tragedy that befell her family and thousands of others during Argentina’s 1976-83 military dictatorship, a period infamously known as the Dirty War. According to human rights groups cited by journalist Haley Cohen Gilliland, around 30,000 people were kidnapped, tortured, and disappeared by the junta—an era Gilliland describes as a “testament to the success of the military government in disappearing people and covering it up.”
Among those lost was Roisinblit’s daughter, Patricia, a 25-year-old medical student and activist, and Patricia’s husband, José Manuel Pérez Rojo. On October 6, 1978, both were abducted by security forces while Patricia was eight months pregnant. Their 15-month-old daughter, Mariana, was also taken but soon returned to the family. The fate of Patricia and José would remain a mystery for decades, emblematic of the uncertainty endured by thousands of Argentine families.
Despite warnings from police not to search for her daughter, Roisinblit refused to be cowed. She filed a habeas corpus petition—summarily rejected—and scoured hospitals and orphanages in a desperate attempt to find Patricia. In a chilling encounter, a judge sympathetic to the junta told her he "would never hand over a child to the likes of us," as reported by The New York Times. It was only later that Roisinblit learned, through testimony, that Patricia had been held in a makeshift maternity ward at the notorious Naval Mechanics School, a site of torture and death. There, Patricia gave birth in captivity in November 1978. Her newborn son was handed over under false papers to Francisco Gómez, a civilian Air Force intelligence officer, and his wife—one of hundreds of children born in clandestine centers and raised by military families.
Roisinblit, a widow and retired obstetrician, was undeterred by personal risk. She soon joined the fledgling Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo—an offshoot of the mothers who had begun gathering weekly in Buenos Aires’ central square, donning symbolic white scarves to protest the disappearances. "I wanted to fight, I wanted to do something, I was in a rush to do something," Roisinblit is quoted as saying in Gilliland’s book, A Flower Traveled in My Blood: The Incredible True Story of the Grandmothers Who Fought to Find a Stolen Generation of Children. For 33 years, she poured her energy into the group, rallying international support, following up on anonymous tips, and pioneering the use of genetic testing to identify stolen grandchildren.
According to the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, some 300 "stolen grandchildren" remain unaccounted for, while around 140 have been reunited with their families. Roisinblit’s own family experienced this bittersweet process. In 2000, after a tip led her granddaughter Mariana to a young fast-food worker in Buenos Aires, DNA tests confirmed that he was Guillermo, Patricia’s long-lost son. Guillermo, who grew up under the surname Gómez, eventually confronted the couple who raised him and reclaimed his true family name, describing his upbringing as abusive.
Patricia and José were never seen again. Their absence haunted Roisinblit, who once told a judge, "I need the Argentine state to tell me who took them. Why it took them. Who gave them a trial. Who convicted them. Where are they? I want to find the remains of my children, because then I’d have a place to lay a flower." Her words, delivered in court at age 96, reflected the enduring pain of so many families still searching for closure.
Roisinblit’s activism extended far beyond her personal tragedy. She and her fellow Grandmothers, or abuelas, fundamentally changed the landscape of international human rights law. As Gilliland notes, these women—most without money, power, or a public platform—"recognized that they could successfully stand up to a brutal dictatorship and demand truth and demand their stolen grandchildren." Their efforts led to the pioneering of genetic testing for identification and set global precedents for the rights of the disappeared and their families. Yet, as Gilliland points out, not all reunions were happy. Many grandchildren, raised by military and police families, faced difficult reckonings with their past and the people who had raised them.
Roisinblit’s life was shaped by adversity from the beginning. Born Rosa Tarlovsky on August 15, 1919, in Moisés Ville, an agricultural colony of Jewish immigrants fleeing Russian pogroms, she moved to Rosario as a teenager to study obstetrics at the National University of Litoral. She married Benjamin Roisinblit in 1951 and gave birth to Patricia the following year. Her resilience, forged in hardship, would become her greatest asset as she confronted the horrors of dictatorship.
The quest for justice gained new momentum in 2005 when Argentina’s Supreme Court lifted a blanket amnesty protecting junta-era officials. Left-leaning President Néstor Kirchner allied with the Mothers and Grandmothers, opening the door to prosecutions. In 2016, Roisinblit faced the men accused of kidnapping her daughter and son-in-law in court: Francisco Gómez, Air Force intelligence chief Luis Trillo, and Air Force commander Omar Graffigna. All were found guilty—Graffigna and Trillo receiving 25-year sentences, Gómez 12 years. When asked by the judge if she was prepared to tell the truth, Roisinblit replied, "I never stop telling the truth. It’s a trait of mine." When asked how many children she had, she hesitated, then said, "I had a daughter. But I don’t anymore."
Roisinblit’s death comes at a time when the lessons of Argentina’s past feel increasingly relevant. As Gilliland reflected in a recent interview, the abuelas’ fight serves as a warning against the authoritarian erosion of civil liberties—a warning that resonates in contemporary debates over state power and human rights, both in Argentina and abroad.
Rosa Roisinblit is survived by her granddaughter, Mariana Eva Pérez, and her grandson, Guillermo Pérez Roisinblit. The Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, in their statement, said, "The greatest recognition she received is that of the grandchildren she found, who at every meeting embraced her as if she were their own grandmother." Her life was a testament to the power of persistence and the enduring human need for truth and justice—no matter how long the search may take.
