Taking resistance off script in Argentina

Opinion • Valen Iricibar • October 16, 2025 • Leer en castellano

A popular chant in Argentine protests today goes something like “Milei, you’re trash, you’re the dictatorship” (it rhymes in Spanish). But if instead it went “Milei, you tragedy, you are democracy,” in a manner that centered the political system that brought him to power, we might be having different and long-overdue conversations that could bring into view different kinds of struggle taking place at the national level.

We have many pre-established talking points, or “scripts” in our country about who we are and what we believe. Today, these scripts are no longer effective, but many are struggling under the weight of that political discourse.

There have always been people and communities fighting outside of fixed paradigms, examples of resistance against a government that treats cruelty like a trivial game. This historical social organization came to the fore on February 1 this year with the Federal Anti-Racist and Anti-Fascist Pride March.

Speaking of scripts: I know that first paragraph of this piece will lead many to label me a “gorilla” (anti-Peronist), a pro-dictatorship apologist, or an embittered Trotskyist.

Allow me to clarify: President Javier Milei is an unhappy outcome of Argentina’s electoral process. I don’t consider Milei's administration to be particularly democratic in nature, nor do I think we should stop condemning the crimes of past military dictatorships. We must always speak out against the atrocities they wrought.

What I want to highlight are the still unanswered questions that are gigantic in scope. Among other things, the delegitimization of party politics, which guides many of those scripts, brought us Milei, with new talking points that provide no real solutions.

One of the central questions we now face is: what do we do when a government can ignore mass protests without suffering significant political consequences?

My point of view is shared among those who identified Milei as a threat from the outset, but at the same time, who, under democracy, have constantly had to contend with being ignored by the state.

Outside the talking points

Argentine democracy is young, but our discourse is incredibly rigid, to the point of being stifling. We ought to be more comfortable with criticizing—and listening to critics of—systems that exacerbate structural problems and reconsider the way we do popular protest.

The mechanics of state power, for example, do not change substantially from one administration to the next, although I don’t want to minimize the fact that today they operate with a broader level of impunity.

The 39 deaths across the country during crackdowns against protests of the 2001 socioeconomic crisis, the brutal police repression in Jujuy in 2023, and our current reality of seeing retirees beaten up on a weekly basis all happened under democratic governments (albeit very different ones).

Pointing out that the state was absent or hostile when discussing periods in which progressive political groups were in power makes for some awkward conversations. We understand that the personal is political. But we should be able to criticize policies without it being considered a personal attack.

The first time I visited the Archivo de la Memoria Trans (AMT) stands out in my memory of learning more about these grey areas. On that visit, I had the privilege of chatting with the whole group. Amid stories of brutal repression under dictatorship, I asked collective members how violence changed with the return of democracy. Immediately, several voices in unison said, “It was worse” or “Nothing changed.”

My face must have given away my surprise. I remember Magalí Muñiz asking me, “Don’t you know about the police edicts?”

I learned that in Buenos Aires, the police could fine and imprison travestis and transgender people for “dressing publicly in clothes belonging to the opposite sex” and “offering sexual services on public streets.”

Although the dictatorship that systematically persecuted gender dissidents fell in 1983, these edicts remained in force until 1998, and discrimination by security forces persists to this day. Several trans women remember spending most of the 1990s behind bars because officers recognized and arrested them repeatedly under the pretext of those edicts.

Censorship, repression, and negligence: no presidency is exempt from using these tools. None of this is neat and tidy, meaning our conclusions shouldn’t be either. Glossing over the greys means wasting the opportunity to define and, ultimately, address our reality.

At the presentation of a collective legal demand for reparations for travestis and transgender people who are over 50, Ivana Tintilay poses with copies of her police file containing 177 arrests in seven years. Buenos Aires City, November 1, 2024. Photo: Valen Iricibar.

Sidelined resistance

Just as politics isn't just about winning elections, enacting social change in Argentina goes beyond the mass demonstrations we’re known for organizing.

Since Milei came to power in 2024, more and more groups are experiencing the phenomenon of protesting “without being heard.” They may even be realizing that exercising our constitutional right to protest is not about being a kuka (a derogatory term referring to Kirchnerism) or a paid actor. It means knocking on the state’s door and demanding answers, regardless of which administration is in power. That’s always been the reality for the travesti, trans and non-binary (TTNB+) community.

My first march was the historic Ni Una Menos march in 2015. Ten years later, I'm very familiar with how we protest—the slogans, the march route, the stage, the speeches, the chants. These are all key elements (and they’re even something I find comforting): a language we share. This year, however, we’re feeling the attrition, and even those scripts are changing.

I started my journalism career soon after my first march. Later, I realized I’m trans, and when I started reaching out to the community, I noticed a striking difference in turnout at assemblies and demonstrations.

I began to attend rallies with little to no media coverage, where frustrated protesters called out the absence of mainstream feminist groups as well as state abandonment. These are rallies where we recognize each other, and can be there for one another.

The Federal Anti-Racist and Anti-Fascist Pride March on February 1 of this year was a profound turning point. It was convened in an open assembly held in Parque Lezama in Buenos Aires, decentralizing many elements of our protests in a way that has continued to echo in later demonstrations.

Many asked me, in seeming surprise, why society was paying so much attention to the LGBTQIA+ community. They wondered if the massive response was due to some inherent progressive values. The reality is otherwise: if there’s a community that knows how to go out and fight for their rights despite intense hostility, it’s ours.

Parque Lezama emerged from a collective embrace, but from years of experience campaigning and fighting.

The open assembly was described as “spontaneous,” but it was the result of the convening of vital experiences and a constant practice of resistance that yielded such a large turnout.

Again—we already recognized each other’s faces, and we could hold each other close.

The state, again

Several articles in the transfeminist series critique progressivism as long overdue for deep introspection and highlight the need to decenter the state.

From the fringes, the strategy is to reappropriate state mechanisms to our advantage. Today more than ever, it’s time to view institutionality—and protect it from this government's assault—from a communal, dissident perspective.

Last year, the AMT, together with the Center for Legal and Social Studies, petitioned the state on behalf of 13 survivors demanding reparations for violence suffered under the dictatorship and due to police edicts in democracy.

Asking the state to recognize horrific discrimination, which led to the 13 survivors being unable to access a pension, among other things, even when facing a government that is actively hostile towards our community, is, in fact, exemplary.

The challenge stands, and is possible because of the support, training, and documentation that the AMT does so carefully.

Argentina was recently shaken by a horrific triple femicide, and, as in the cases of the triple lesbicide in Barracas last year or the search for Tehuel de la Torre, there were complaints that unless a case is particularly barbaric, it does not appear in the media or prompt protest.

We must listen to those directly affected, as their demands often highlight gaps that can be addressed. Improving the system for reporting disappearances and condemning the absence of the state are just two examples that emerged from the triple femicide.

Listening is often misunderstood as a passive act, but it’s better than just doing the motions.

*Marlene Wayar leads an anti-fascist chant in a pizzeria after the Federal Anti-Racist and Anti-Fascist Pride March. Buenos Aires City, February 1, 2025. Photo: Valen Iricibar.*

A thousand ways to fight

In Argentina, people often talk about autoconvocades, the “self-convened,” a term that I've always loved. It describes demonstrators who take to the streets to protest without a formal call to action, be they part of a political party, a union, an organization, or otherwise.

In my queer circles, people also talk about trincheras de amor or “trenches of love”—spaces for struggle that include tenderness and care as a form of resistance.

The image that stayed with me from the February 1 march was afterwards, in a pizzeria. I went to do some interviews, and Marlene Wayar (a prominent travesti activist) was rallying diners in a thunderous anti-fascist chant. And just like that, there are thousands of other examples of ways to struggle.

I think about the AMT, which was created in 2012, bringing together experiences from decades ago. Seeing Tehuel de la Torre's mother and Norma Castillo at the marches, supported by the community in many different ways, always demanding more. The display of so much dissident talent in a concert by Brotecitos, NuesTrans Canciones, released in 2021.

Ultimately, I would like our response to apathy to be a self-organized community of listeners who know their people and “trenches” well.

In the hope of seeing each other's faces, at the very least, but also to pay tribute to those who have died, celebrate those who survive, and to continue to knock on that damn door.

Today, that means taking action wherever we can: with protests, yes, but also in the thousand ways in which communities are showing opposition. From creating video games to mock corruption, to setting up soup kitchens outside courthouses, to raising awareness on social media, to monitoring the locations of your friends whenever they go to demonstrate.

Standing our ground

What can be done against a government that believes ignoring mass demonstrations entails no political cost?

Anything, except waiting to see who is on the ballot. Everything, except mindlessly repeating partisan scripts. Anything that isn’t silence, understanding, as British labour politician Tony Benn said: “There is no final victory, as there is no final defeat.”

The fact that ways of doing things have lost some of their meaning does not mean that they are void. If some scripts no longer work, it doesn’t mean words and values have diminished. The earth keeps moving under our feet, and there is palpable exhaustion, but there have always been other ways—perhaps less conspicuous—of resisting that remind us how to stand our ground.

I cannot claim that this column has provided any answers. That’s a communal effort, blurry and eternal in a gigantic country with exposed nerves and raw with fatigue. But let's be honest in our discussions and speak with our own voice.