On the chilly morning of July 18, 1994, at a busy intersection in Buenos Aires, a white Renault van sped in front of Mrs. Nicolasa Romero, who was walking her son, Nahu, to nursery school. “A real lout,” thought Nicolasa, “no respect for pedestrians.” He would have run us over, she fumed, had I not yanked Nahu back onto the pavement. “Idiot!” she yelled. The driver, she later recalled, “was dark-skinned, with large eyes; he wore a beige shirt and his dark hair was cut army-style.” He looked impassively into Nicolasa’s eyes as she held tightly to Nahu’s hand.
Minutes later, a tremendous explosion, a deafening roar, shattered the morning. The screams and the storms of stones, rubble, and broken glass meant that it came from somewhere nearby, and Nicolasa and her son, together with many others, crouched on the ground in fear. People were yelling, “A bomb! A bomb!” When, dazed and covered in dust and shards of glass, Nicolasa managed to pull herself and Nahu up, she immediately saw that they were the lucky ones. Others lay on the bloodied ground mutilated, some dead.