My name is Javier

and I was born 43 years ago in Ingeniero Juárez, Argentina, an impoverished town 500 kilometers away from Formosa province’s capital city.

My biological mother was 15 years old when I was born. She was a brave woman, choosing life and adoption for her son (me).

My mother, Nené (Haydeé), worked for the National Ministry of Health. She traveled to Ingeniero Juárez with a group of doctors to observe the public health’s precariousness in greater Formosa.

In Ingeniero Juárez there were no hotels, only a small house that belonged to a group of Catholic nuns. These nuns worked with local residents in the area, helping them with educational and health-related issues.

One night, Sister Gracia (one of the nuns), came into my mother’s room and asked her if she could join her. There was a girl who was about to give birth and she had decided to give her baby away. To ‘give your baby away’ is a phrase that is frequently used in the most rural areas of Argentina.

Nené, without hesitation, said: “Yes, come on, I’ll go with you.”

When they entered the small room, Nené told Sister Gracia to search no more: “I’ll adopt him”.

Gracia looked at her and said: “You’re crazy”.

Nené was single with no children, though she had considered adoption before. And now she had the opportunity. She saw me, hugged me, completed some legal paperwork, and then she brought me to Buenos Aires with her.

I always knew I was adopted. Nené created a very nice story to soften the feelings of abandonment that we, adoptees, always have. She told me that my father had died working in the mountains and that therefore, my mother had died of sadness.

This story was part of my life until I was 18 years old, when one day she sat down with me to drink some mates and tell me the truth: the story I had believed my entire life up until that point was only to protect me. Nené explained she had known my biological mother who was very young when I was born. She was then, 15 years old, as I said before, and probably living in the same place where I was born.

After receiving this news, my interest in and need to know my biological mother began. I wanted to know my origins, especially who I looked like. My adoptive mother, Nené, is of German origin, and I am a dark boy from the mountains of Formosa. Clearly, we look nothing alike. That was what struck my curiosity the most: to know who I look like, to know my roots, to know my identity.

I had two opportunities to meet my biological mother. The first one failed. She was still married and when her husband found out that I had arrived to the village he took her away to the province of Salta, so I couldn’t meet with her.

The second time was a few years later, when my eldest son, Ignacio, was born. My first blood bond. I was once again moved by the need to know my origins, to know my biological mother.

My mom, Nené, remembered that there was a person we could contact, a catholic priest who still lived in the area and who had been there when I was born. I contacted him. His name is Francisco Nazar. I made arrangements to go to Formosa. I traveled there to meet him and together we went to Ingeniero Juárez, my birth place.

We were on the road for a while before arriving to a very simple, very humble house. As the truck approached it, two women came out of the house. One of them looked just like me, she was my mother, my biological mother.

I got out of the pick-up truck, we hugged, I introduced myself: “My name is Javier”, I said.

“Hello, my name is Clara”.

At the time, my wife Sol was pregnant with our second child, a baby girl who we had already decided to name Clara; things of fate.

Together with my biological mother we cried, we hugged and I finally had closure. I uncovered a veil that needed to be removed.