AYACUCHO, Perú — For Lidia Flores, the option to find solace in the memory of her husband was tempting. She could have quietly tended to his grave or found comfort in the retrieval of his remains, a significant act in a nation where approximately 20,000 individuals vanished during the tumultuous years from 1980 to 2000. Instead, she chose a different route: to actively seek out others who similarly went missing during Peru’s most brutal era.

“I feel restless while others are still searching, just as I once did,” Flores shared from her home in Ayacucho, a city whose name means “nook of the dead” in Quechua. “It is important for me to support them in their quests.”

The plight of the missing resonates deeply across Latin America, where thousands have disappeared due to dictatorships, armed conflicts, or organized crime. Historically, among those left behind—wives, mothers, and daughters—have fought for justice. Yet, Flores’ narrative stands out; despite having discovered her husband’s remains four decades ago, her losses inspired her to dedicate her life to a larger purpose.

For several years, she has led the National Association of Relatives of Detained and Disappeared Persons of Peru, known by its Spanish abbreviation Anfasep. Established in 1983, the organization comprises around 140 members who advocate for truth and reparations.

“While I sometimes find moments of peace, I often question the reasons behind these tragedies,” Flores remarked, noting that many Peruvians refer to her as “mami” or “madrecita,” terms of endearment that reflect her nurturing role within the community.

“Giving up is not an option for me. I made a commitment,” she affirmed. “I will demand justice for all victims and discover the truth about my husband’s death for as long as I draw breath.”

So why did around 20,000 Peruvians go missing?

Not long after Flores last saw her husband, Felipe Huamán, he was seized by military personnel disguised as civilians outside their home in July 1984. A month later, guided by a stranger who recognized a corpse fitting Huamán’s description, she found his remains. Although only days had passed since he was discarded down a hill, stray animals had already disturbed the bones. Carrying her two-month-old infant, she carefully wrapped what remained of Huamán and trekked uphill, navigating her grief and maternal duty.

Upon arriving at the prosecutor’s office to secure a death certificate for burial, an official coldly advised her: “His body is no longer intact. Dispose of him as you wish, either by throwing him in the river or burning the remains.” With a heavy heart, she smuggled the bones home and bribed a grave digger to bury Huamán at midnight, weeping silently behind a tree as she said goodbye.

Flores’ story reflects the devastating fallout from a fierce conflict waged between the Peruvian government and the leftist insurgency known as Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. This group emerged in the 1970s, led by Abimael Guzman, and turned to violence by the 1980s. Older generations in Peru still recount stories of grotesque attacks, such as bomb-laden donkeys detonating in crowds and mass executions that obliterated entire families.

The government’s response was equally harsh; many innocent individuals were captured, tortured, and executed by military forces. Other victims suffered at the hands of the insurgents, who used terror as a means to establish dominance in various communities.

The Truth Commission has declared this period as the most brutal in Peru’s history, with over 69,000 classified as “fatal victims”—about 20,000 officially labeled as “disappeared,” the remainder victims of violence inflicted by insurgents or the military.

“In numerous ways, Peru continues to confront the lingering effects of the political violence from the last century,” stated Miguel La Serna, a history professor at the University of North Carolina. “The demographic landscape of communities has been drastically altered with entire generations of men vanishing, many fleeing due to the violence, while the psychological scars remain deep.”

A desperate quest for answers characterizes the lives of those whose relatives remain missing. They wander through streets seeking information, vainly listening to radio broadcasts. Each time human remains are discovered, families descend upon the locations, hoping to uncover any familiar facial features.

“Animals have devoured some of the bodies, but we grew accustomed to it,” related Adelina García, who lost her 27-year-old spouse, Zósimo Tenorio, in 1983. “Disgust and fear were no longer emotions I felt.”

The couple had moved to Ayacucho in search of safety from Sendero Luminoso’s threats but soon found themselves caught in the turmoil. “Every night was filled with dread,” García recounted. “I constantly wondered: Who would claim our lives? The insurgents or the military?”

One night, soldiers stormed into her home, pulling Tenorio from their bed, branding him a “terrorist,” and carrying him away. They ransacked their possessions and assaulted García until she lost consciousness, leaving her beside their crying child.

“Leaders have urged us to let go, move forward, and turn the page, but we cannot,” stated García. “When someone passes, traditional wakes are conducted; for us, the uncertainty always lingers: What if they are still alive?”

A military officer informed her that Tenorio had been transported to Cabitos, an army facility notorious for executing more than 130 individuals, but she could never verify that truth. Thus, her search remains unresolved. “My exterior may show age, but my spirit is unwavering,” she said. “I will never cease my pursuit of justice and truth.”

For those with missing loved ones, maintaining a spiritual connection provides comfort. “I pray for my father,” said Luyeva Yangali, whose father, Fortunato, disappeared near Ayacucho in 1983. “Each night, I talk to him as if speaking to God.”

Initially, her mother took charge of the search, but after suffering torture by the military for alleged collaboration with insurgents, the family relocated to Lima, and Yangali assumed the responsibility. “At 11, my family was shattered, and the wounds remain,” she noted. “I fear they may never heal.”

Despite the efforts of forensic experts, only around 3,200 remains have been recovered. Concerns are rising that President Dina Boluarte might withdraw government support for continued searches, yet many cling to hope, especially those who have recently had a chance to finally bid farewell.

During a recent restitution ceremony in Ayacucho, Pablo Valerio mourned not just one, but five family members, including his parents and two sisters, who fell victim to Sendero Luminoso in 1984 while Valerio and his younger brother were away studying. They learned of the tragedy a month later when they attempted to return home. “Upon arrival, we were puzzled by the eerie silence that enveloped our surroundings,” Valerio recalled, now 63. “Our home lay in ruins, smoke still wafting from the ashes.”

Valerio discovered their bodies the following day, stacked within a pit, catching a glimpse of his father’s hands among the remains. Fearing the insurgents might return to harm them, he and his brother fled, missing the opportunity to hold a proper wake.

“It was only after the Truth Commission intervened that we were able to recover their remains,” Valerio shared. “Though fragmented, we carefully placed the bones in a box to bring them here.”

The day prior to a Mass honoring the deceased at Ayacucho’s cathedral, forensic teams, prosecutors, and interpreters supported the grieving relatives, enabling them to confront their past. Many wept; others interlocked hands in prayer. Valerio, treasuring the singular photograph he possesses of his father, whispered to the bones: “You are no longer lost; you are present.”

“Spirit cannot be extinguished; you remain alive.”