Buenos Aires, Argentina –

When Hamas militants attacked numerous targets in Israel on October 7, killing hundreds and kidnapping others, Marina Degtiar felt as if she had traveled back in time, to the July 18, 1994.

What happened in Buenos Aires 30 years ago left her heartbroken. A van packed with bombs exploded inside the Jewish community center where her 21-year-old brother, Cristian, worked.

It was the worst such attack in Argentina’s history, killing 85 people (including De Getial’s brother) and injuring 300 others.

In 1992, a bombing at the Israeli embassy in Argentina killed 29 people, and two years later the Argentine-Israeli Mutual Aid Association (AMIA by its Spanish abbreviation) was destroyed. Seven of the victims have yet to be identified, Israeli officials said.

Argentinian prosecutors have accused Iranian officials of planning the AMIA attack and said Hezbollah operatives carried it out, but no one has been convicted. Iran has refused to hand over former officials and diplomats facing charges and has denied any involvement.

For many who have lost friends and family members to the attacks, time has not healed their pain. For some, the lack of justice in the case and the outbreak of Israel’s war with Hamas have worsened the situation.

“If you asked me how it was, I’d be excited,” Degetiar said. “I feel very sad because what is happening in Israel affects us as humans, the Jewish people and me personally.”

Degetiar said she lived two lives – one before Christian’s death and one after.

Decades ago, she often felt her family lived far away from the bombs she saw on television.

“Thirty years ago, it was unnatural to talk about terrorism in Argentina,” De Getial said. “The bombs did not explode at home like the first explosion at the embassy or, in my case, the attack on AMIA.”

After months of deep grief, she decided that being numbed by pain was disrespectful of her brother’s life, so she took action.

She spent years sharing her story in self-help groups and eventually became a psychologist. Degetia currently specializes in grief counseling, where she comforts those who, like her, are mourning a loved one.

In her approach to patients, she often reveals that she too has lost someone and is therefore able to sympathize with them.

“I’ve built a life for myself that gives me a reason to talk about my brother Christian every day,” Degetiar said. “I name my brother every day of my life.”

Argentines among Hamas victims and hostages

Sandra Myasnik did not find out what happened on October 7 through the news.

Fear invaded her Buenos Aires home via a WhatsApp group: a screenshot showed her cousin Shiri Bibas hugging her two redheads above a message child. “They took them away.”

“I remember that moment clearly,” Myasnik said. “I said, ‘No, that’s not her.’ Check out the psychological defense mechanisms of not seeing what you see.”

She walked around the house, not knowing what to do, waiting for news. She later learned that her uncle, José Luis Silberman, who immigrated to Israel from Argentina in the 1970s seeking a life away from the dictatorship, had been killed by Hamas.

After the Hamas attack, Argentina’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs revealed that seven Argentine nationals were killed and 15 others were kidnapped from their homes. Among them were Minisk’s cousin and her 9-month-old child, Kfir Bibas, the youngest Israeli dragged into Gaza.

President Javier Milley showed public interest in Judaism when he traveled to Israel in late January to call for the release of 11 Argentines still imprisoned.

Miasnik said the Hamas attacks, although they occurred far away from Argentina, triggered grief and fear familiar to Latin America’s largest Jewish community.

“How can Argentina say that terrorism exists (only) in the Middle East?” Miasnik said. “It’s not thousands of miles away. It’s here, all around us.”

AMIA Community Center staff urgently provide support to Argentinian relatives of Hamas victims. Myasnik didn’t accept it immediately.

“I thought I was stable, and all of a sudden I realized I’d never been through anything like this,” she said.

She met Degetiard after a symbolic celebration of her nephew’s birthday and later went to seek counsel from her. Others reached out to Myasnik to share words of comfort and make her feel like she was not alone.

“I had no connection to the religious aspects of Judaism, but I reconnected with my identity,” Myasnik said. “This isn’t just happening to my family. It’s happening to the community as well.”

Commemorating the victims of the 1994 bombings

Year after year, relatives of the victims of the 1994 attack return to the community center headquarters, where a new building has been constructed.

AMIA President Amos Linetzky said this was a symbolic move. “Not because of religion, but because they wanted to destroy us, but they couldn’t. They made us stronger, and we’re still here, in the same place.”

The center was founded 130 years ago and currently manages cemeteries, educational institutions, promotes cultural events and guides people in finding jobs.

Linzki said it also invests in preserving history for younger generations. The center holds annual events to commemorate the attacks and pay tribute to the dead.

“The passage of time is no excuse for forgetting,” Linzki said.

Trees were planted outside the building in memory of the victims. Patricia Strier lost her sister Mirta in the explosion and visited her as often as possible.

“I kissed it, I stroked it, I talked to Myrta,” Strier said. “Her tree was beautiful and full of leaves.”

Mirta’s death was not immediately confirmed. Strier spent a week soliciting information at hospitals, morgues and police stations. She said she understood the sadness and uncertainty of those waiting for news about their loved ones amid Israel’s war with Hamas.

Steele said: “At first I was just thinking about the impact this would have on my family and friends there (Israel), but then my pain increased because I saw what I had done in the terrorist attack that killed my sister. Reflect.” “We are also victims.”

Her pain did not lessen, but like Degetia, she tried to keep her sister close to her.

Seven days after the explosion, she dreamed of a young, smiling Mirta. “Why are you laughing if we are all so anxious to find you?” Strier asked in his dream. “I’m fine,” she replied with a smile.

She woke up and the phone rang, confirming Mirta’s death.

Strier lights Shabbat candles every Friday and places several photos of her parents and Mirta on a modest altar. Strier said her sister rarely smiled, and her mother stopped smiling after her daughter was killed in the explosion. Strier chooses to remember their smiles.

“That’s how I imagine them,” Strier said. “The light comes from above, from my loved ones, from my angels, and I put them all in their place, each in their place, so as not to forget any of them.”